


A Crack in the Teacup

by Lilsi



Category: The Bill
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-11 22:07:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 73,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11723544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilsi/pseuds/Lilsi
Summary: This fanfiction was once posted at Craiggilmore.co.uk a fan site no longer active, so to preserve this story and others, I am importing them to AO3. I did not want the loss of such a large amount of amazing and wonderful fanfiction, it would be such a waste to fans of Craig Gilmore and Luke Ashton to not have the opportunity to enjoy these stories as i have. Since the site is no longer active i have been unable to contact the creators but if you happen to be them under a new pen name and want the fiction to be removed please send me a note!Story written by - BaxterStory on original site split in two the first having chapters 1-10 and the second 11-17.Posted up as it was on original website.





	1. A Crack in the Teacup Ch 1-10

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfiction was once posted at Craiggilmore.co.uk a fan site no longer active, so to preserve this story and others, I am importing them to AO3. I did not want the loss of such a large amount of amazing and wonderful fanfiction, it would be such a waste to fans of Craig Gilmore and Luke Ashton to not have the opportunity to enjoy these stories as i have. Since the site is no longer active i have been unable to contact the creators but if you happen to be them under a new pen name and want the fiction to be removed please send me a note!
> 
> Story written by - Baxter
> 
> Story on original site split in two the first having chapters 1-10 and the second 11-17.  
> Posted up as it was on original website.

A Crack in the Teacup

by Baxter

 

##  Fandom: The Bill

Pairing: Craig/Luke 

Disclaimer: The characters are not mine, and no one, damn them, is giving me any money for this. The story borrows bits from the The Bill (which is not mine either, ergo no money) and the rest is made up. 

Category: Some gore, a healthy amount of swearing (in the good way) and a smattering of tasteful filth. 

Archive: **www.craigilmore.co.uk**

  ** WINNER OF BEST COMPLETED SERIES SO33 AWARDS 2004  **

 

 

Chapter One

“It is only with the heart that one can see rightly: what is essential is invisible to the eye.”

Antoine de Saint-Exupery

The Little Prince.

#  One

The first time I met Craig, I just assumed he was straight. 

It was the last Sunday in March, 2001.  A group of us were having brunch at some café – a café I believe has since closed down – in Islington. Can I bring a friend, Richard had asked, a friend who’s just come down from Manchester? Bring who you like, I said. Go nuts. Then I forgot all about him.

There were nine of us, couples, singles, gays and straights. All friends or partners, with occasional free time and enough disposable income to allow us to while a couple of hours over brioche, fresh fruit and Colombian coffee served on plain white china. 

I felt sorry for him, stranger amongst a group of friends, sitting at the end of the table. He was smiling politely, his face dipped down a little, listening intently to the conversation closest to him but saying nothing. 

“I’m Sean,” I said to him as I sat down in the last empty chair opposite him. He had eight names to remember, so I wasn’t expecting anything. 

“Craig,” he said, and smiled shyly back at me. 

He left it up to me. Shy or lazy or scared of poofs, I couldn’t yet tell. 

“You’re Richard’s friend, from Manchester?” I tried.

He nodded. “I’ve just been transferred.” Ah, businessman, I thought, thinking I could find some common ground for him. I was still at the Bank of London then. 

“What do you do?” I said pleasantly. 

“Police Sergeant. I’ve transferred to the Met.” He seemed really proud of this.

My heart sunk. I’m being nice to a straight white male copper, one of the great enemies of gay men everywhere. 

“Well, I hope you enjoy it here,” I said, and turned to talk to Stephanie next to me. I hadn’t seen her for ages.  

I was halfway though eggs hollandaise when he spoke to me again. 

“Are you from London, Sean?” he asked. 

“Maidstone,” I said briefly, not wanting to encourage him. Cute, though. Nice eyes, nice body, nice pale blue shirt. 

“And you live in London now?” He was cutting through bacon, neatly spearing pieces with small chunks of Roma tomato. 

“Hackney.” 

“Do you have a partner?” 

There’s only one thing worse than the straight white male cop, and that’s the straight white male cop who has done the cultural sensitivity courses. 

I shook my head. “I’m gay,” I said, in case there was any doubt and he started going on about finding single women in London. 

He nodded at me as if I’d told him I was male. Just nodded, as if he already knew. Well, it’s no secret. 

Stephanie saved me with some interesting tidbit about a party she had been to in Dublin last week. 

I had to drop in to the office on my way home, so I left about 1.30. 

“Bye,”  I said to him off handedly, certain I’d never be stuck across a table from him again. 

He seemed surprised, almost a bit disappointed, that I was going. “Nice to meet you,” he said, his eyes getting even more intense. 

Nice to meet me? Whatever. I nodded, and then realised they must teach them those kinds of courtesies in the Be Nice To Poofs course at Hendon. 

Then I forgot all about him again. 

Stephanie called me the following Tuesday. “Dinner at my place, this Saturday?” she said. “All of us?” 

“Sounds good,” I told her. I love Steph’s dinners. Well, loved them.

“Craig’s coming,” she said. 

“Who?” 

“Craig, the guy you sat next too at brunch on Sunday. Richard’s friend.” 

Oh. Craig. White single male copper. Nemesis of gay men everywhere. 

“Well, that’s good,” I said. 

“I think he likes you,” she said waggishly. 

That’s the thing, you can be totally oblivious to someone and then moment you find out they like you, they become one of the clearest things in your vicinity. 

“He’s straight,” I said, though no longer as convinced as I had been. 

“No he’s not,” she said, “He’s a bigger poof than you. I spoke to him for a half an hour after you left. He’s really nice.”

Gay? Him? I tried to remember something about him, some clue as to his poofness. All I could remember with the eyes, the dark intense eyes and the hair that seemed to change shape of its own accord. 

“He’s a copper,” I said. “And if he is a poof, he’s waaaaaaaaaay out of my league.” The big dark eyed brooding ones always bag the young blonde Adonises. It’s almost a rule. 

Anyway, I had finished a pretty awful relationship about four months ago. I was taking a year off from relationships, and Steph knew this. Well, she should, we workshopped it together for three hours. Took us two bottles of red and the final celebratory vodka martinis. 

“He asked about you,” she went on. 

“That’s his problem,” I said finally. “Twelve months, remember?”

“Sean, he’s really nice. He wanted to know where you worked, what you liked.” 

“Oh great, you gave my personal details to a psycho cop.” 

She gave me an exasperated little whine. “He’s not a psycho,” she protested. “He’s really, really nice. Completely non-scene, really, you know, grown up. We were talking about settling down, and he said, ‘I’d love to find a nice husband.’ I mean, how rare is that?” 

Well, it’s pretty common, actually, but it wasn’t the point. Craig the psycho was maybe growing on me. 

“Oh, okay, so he’s nice. They’re all nice when you first meet them. Who amongst us falls for a person we think is a jerk?” 

“He’s coming on Saturday night,” she said, and I could see her cute little curly smile. “He didn’t say yes until I told him you’d be there.”

“When did you ask him?” 

“I rang him at work yesterday, at Sun Hill Police Station,” she said casually, as if she invited coppers to dinner parties all the time. 

I thought about it all week. Yes, he was cute, and yes, someone looking to settle down was an attractive proposition, but I’d had such a bad time with Paul – the ex – I really wasn’t ready for anyone. They're tiring, relationships. Meeting someone. Working out if you like them, working out if they like you, working out – sooner or later – that one of you likes the other more – and then the hideous break up. I was sick of it. Sometimes I felt I wouldn’t care if I never had another relationship again, but instead could just snack on a lifetime of temporary liaisons with men who never told me their surnames and were great in bed. 

Other times, though, I wondered why it was so hard to find someone normal. A nice normal man who didn’t think it was a waste time to lie around canoodling on the couch for a couple of hours. A nice normal man who could clean up after himself, who maintained a decent level of personal hygiene, who didn’t sleep with every available man with a sixty mile radius while still swearing allegiance to you. 

And anyway, I thought, why would someone like Craig be interested in me? He’s gorgeous. He could have any man he wanted. I wondered if maybe he didn’t think I was some pathetic desperate queen, someone who could keep his bed warm for a few weeks while he settled into the big city, someone he could toss out when he found the motherlode of blonde Adonises he was supposed to go out with. (I believe they’re all in Chelsea.) Yeah, I know it contradicts what I just said, but I want to be the one doing the choosing and discarding.

Sometimes, if you think about things really hard, and you really want something, you can make it happen. I thought really hard about not wanting my heart broken by some strapping piece of police strudel with fabulous eyes and a nice voice.  I thought really hard about not wanting to sit with him at dinner, discouraging him. 

And on Friday at two pm, the entire system at work collapsed completely. The money machines packed it in, the on-line banking – which we were still fine tuning – dropped dead and the international trading froze. There were twenty two of us working with sweat streaming down out faces, frantically clacking at our keyboards, trying to find out what had gone wrong where, while journalists from the Guardian were tying up the phone lines, hoping the entire British financial sector had collapsed. They didn’t know how close they were. 

“I can’t come,” I told Steph at 8am on Saturday morning. I still hadn’t been to bed. “The system collapsed!”

“Oh! Was that your fault?” 

“No it was not my bloody fault,” I snapped. We had been putting the entire system back together piece by piece all night; my head felt as if it had pieces of barbed wire crocheted through it. “I have to stay here until everything’s working,” I told her. 

“Craig’ll be disappointed,” she said quietly. “He’ll think I’ve lured him here on false pretences.”

“Look, about Craig,” I started.

“Yes?” Her voice glittered with hope. 

“I’m really not interested. No, really,” I jumped in, before she could start on the public relations exercise, “I’m really NOT interested.”

“Why not?” She sounded a bit angry. 

“He’s not my type. I’m just not interested.” 

She was quiet for a second, and gave in. 

“Okay. But, tonight, might you be able to come later?” 

“Maybe. Depends on what happens. It won’t be before ten,” I warned. 

“Well, try and come if you can. I’ll save you some risotto, just in case.” 

As it turned out, we had the system back together by five that afternoon, but I stayed and went through it all over again, just to make sure I hadn’t missed anything. So I got to Steph’s at 10.30. 

And there he was, Mr Strong Silent Type, looking straight at me when I walked into Steph’s dining room.  I was so tired I could barely muster a smile, and went and sat down the other end of the table with Julia and Alan, who I knew would give me a lift home. They had a six month old daughter, so I knew they’d leave soon.

New parents. You can set your watch by them. 

So I sat and chatted with them, and learnt more than I ever hoped to about colic and nappy changing. I mean, really. Still, a lift home’s a lift home, and as far as I was concerned it was worth hearing about the contents of Jessie’s nappy for fifty-five minutes.

I didn’t even look at Craig when I left. 

And I probably wouldn’t have ever thought of him again had he not called me the following afternoon.

“Have I got you at a good time?” he asked. 

I looked around the flat, quiet, still, everything in its place, the rain creeping silently down the window. 

“Yeah, fine.” My heart was in my mouth. I hated confrontation. I hated that he’d probably rung to ask me out and I was going to have to tell him to piss off. Suddenly I hated him for putting me in that position. I was tired and not in the mood for some big cop (albeit one with lovely eyes, and, I saw out of the corner of my eye last night, a beautiful laugh) planning to break my heart. 

“So…is everything okay for you at work now?” 

“Yeah, thanks, all back to normal.” Well, there was no point trying to explain it to him. 

“You must have been tired last night, Steph said that you didn’t go home on Friday night.” 

“Yeah, we had to stay there until we got everything up and running.”

“Right. Well, I hope you got some sleep last night,” he said concerned. 

“I slept for fourteen hours.” And I laughed, because just remembering it made me feel better. 

“Well, you deserved that.”  Clearly small talk was not one Craig’s greater talents.

Then the silence. Is he socially inept or shy? 

“Look, I was wondering if maybe you might want to have to dinner with me?” 

Now there are two answers to this question whereby you can make your feelings known to the invitee without a bald yes or no. There’s, ‘I’d love to!’, said in a slightly high pitched voice, or there’s the response I gave Craig. 

“When?” 

“Well, Monday night?” He sounded a bit hesitant. 

“No, Monday night won’t work for me,” I lied. “I’ll be in the office until at least nine.”

“Well, Tuesday?” 

I couldn’t face going through the whole week with him. 

“Look, why don’t I give you a call later in the week? I’ll have a better idea of what I’m doing, you know, with the system, and maybe we could catch up then.” 

“Okay,” he said. I couldn’t quite tell if he understood I was giving him the brush off. 

When he started giving me a list of telephone numbers  - work, home, mobile, other work number and his bloody email – I knew he hadn’t quite got it. 

“Speak with you later in the week then?” he said hopefully.

What **is** his problem? I couldn’t work it out, why this big handsome man with a nice voice, nice laugh, good job and at least four telephone numbers was interested in me. 

It made me tired just thinking about it, so I went and ran a bath. 

While I soaked in the scented water I made a mental note to keep my voice mail on all week. And thank God he didn’t have my work number.  Which of course led me to the bleeding obvious. How did he get my home number?

“Well, he asked me,” Stephanie squeaked when I called her later. “He was really disappointed that he never got to speak with you.”

I had the sickening feeling that maybe he thought I went last night to see him. 

“So when are you seeing him?”

“I’m going to call him later this week,” I lied. Well, it easier than telling her I was going to ignore him.

By Tuesday I forgot about him again.

So when he rang me at work on Thursday he caught me completely unawares. I was talking on-line to a colleague in New York who is my Banana Republic middleman. I go through their catalogue on-line, order stuff, have it sent to Mitch, and he puts it in the overnight dispatch bag to me. I celebrate globalisation. 

“Sean? It’s Craig Gilmore. Have I got you at a good time?” (I don’t know what he thought I actually did, but he always sounded as if he assumed I was in the middle of saving the free world.)

“Oh, Craig, hi.” Oh, Craig, great. 

“I hope you don’t mind me calling you at work.” 

“No, that’s fine.” I could hear general office noise around him too. 

“Are you at work?”

“Yeah.” A brief pause. “I’m doing the crime stats.” 

Fascinating. 

“Well, that would be interesting.”

“No, definitely not,” he answered. 

And then another one of his silences. Boring and shy, I thought. 

“Hmm, so we were going to talk about dinner?” he said, tactfully overlooking the fact that I hadn’t called him.

“Oh right, yeah.”

“We could meet up tonight if you want,” he said, a little uncertain. 

“No, I have a systems meeting until eight, and a meeting at eight tomorrow morning.” Well, it was half true. I did have a meeting tomorrow morning. 

“Tomorrow night?” he sounded hopeful again. 

“Sorry, work drinks,” I lied again.

“Oh,” was all he said, and I realised how horrible I was being. It obviously wasn’t easy for him, and I wasn’t helping, skirting the fact that I simply wanted to avoid another disastrous relationship.

“Saturday night?” I said, half-heartedly. 

“Yeah! Great!” The cheer in his voice made me feel a thousand times worse. Maybe he was just very lonely. 

When I look back now, and think of what he was like before I could see his heart, I’m ashamed I could have ever misinterpreted his honesty and guile for malice and lust.

We arranged to go some Italian place in Kensington. Not too far from me, and at that stage I had no idea where he lived. I assumed he lived close to centre, like we all did. 

Craig did everything – booked the table, set the time, bought the wine, got there first. He was so happy to see me, running only seven minutes late, that I thought at first he mistook me for someone else. 

“Sorry I’m late – tube,” I said, a little breathless, a little nervous of him. He was a lot better looking than I remembered, and he seemed to be smiling more.  For the first and only time in the three years I knew him his hair was sitting down all over, and he was wearing his good shirt. He’d made a real effort, as if this - some cheap dish of pasta in a passable ristorante on the Kensington High Street  - was a special occasion.

I’d been dreading this meal, having to sit and make conversation with someone I was trying not to be interested in. It’s funny how things turn out. (Well, more on that later.) But it was a great night. Craig was funny, curious about me, candid about himself, flirting moderately, surprisingly knowledgable about wine and by the end of the night I found myself wishing that I had never met him, because falling in love with him seemed unavoidable. 

“I’d really like to see you again,” he said when he drove me home. We were sitting in his car out the front of my place while I silently assessed whether or not I should invite him up. Con: Getting my heart put through the blender and fed to the chickens. Pro: he was drop dead gorgeous and I hadn’t had any for five weeks. 

“That’d be good,” I smiled at him, wondering if he was as a good lover as he was dinner company. That mouth alone would be worth finding out, so I took a deep breath. “Do you want to come up for coffee?”

“Look, I’d really love to, but I have to be at work tomorrow at five.” He didn’t offer any explanation or platitudes. That was it with Craig - the job, then everything else. But of course I hadn’t learnt that then.

I felt ridiculous and confused. In my fairly vast experience the only reason that another gay man doesn’t come up for coffee is that frankly, he finds you completely unattractive. 

“Oh, okay,” I said calmly. Am I ugly or dull or both? I thought we got on really well. 

Still, it could be salvaged. If he kisses me…

“Well, I call you,” he promised, his lovely eyes smiling at me. He didn’t budge, didn’t even lean towards me. 

So I figured that was my dismissal notice. 

“Great. Look forward to hearing from you,” I replied sourly, and got out of his car. 

By the time I had locked the door on my flat I was ropable. He chased me, he wanted dinner, he flirted with me, now I get a complete freeze out and the oldest if not most insulting line in the book: “I’ll call you.”

I ran a bath, tossed in some lavender oil and poured myself the tallest glass of red wine I could manage not to slop. If you’re going to berate yourself for your stupidity, you may as well do it in comfort. 

The next morning I sat at my table, slurping coffee, sulking. 

Stupid Welsh git, I thought to myself. And he’s a cop. 

(I rather enjoyed harbouring hurts like this. I wasted months of my life obsessing and complaining about men who I believed had treated me badly. )

Later, as I showered, it occurred to me that if I was ugly and dull as Craig seemed to think I was, then I should go shopping.

I felt good, that day. It began to dawn on me that actually I got off pretty lightly, just a bit of nicked pride. I mean, no one likes to hear “I’ll call you” after a date, especially from someone as attractive as Craig. 

But “I’ll call you,” was fairly inconsequential when I laid it alongside some of the horrible things Paul did. Anyway, I never had to see Craig again.  I keep my dealings with the police to a complete minimum – I had never even spoken to one until I met Craig – and I’ll just avoid Steph and Richard until I’m certain I won’t run into him. 

A bit of power over your own life and your own heart. That’s all you need. 

I bought some books and cds, some new breakfast cups, two new oils from Culpeppers, a plain shirt from Gap and a pair of jeans. When I came home, less ugly and less dull, there were three messages winking at me from the phone. 

Steph, wanting an autopsy report from last night. 

Tom, from work, wanting to discuss an article he read in the Observer. 

Craig, thanking me for last night, and asking if I could call him back. “I had a great time, and really want to see you again,” he said. 

Oh yeah? So great you couldn’t even bring yourself to kiss me?

I deleted the three of them immediately. 

I was bundled up in my bed with the first of my new books and a more modest glass of red by nine that night. By ten I was fast asleep, completely cured of he who ailed me. 

Stupid Welsh git. 

 

A Crack in the Teacup

by Baxter

 

##  Fandom: The Bill

Pairing: Craig/Luke 

Disclaimer: The characters are not mine, and no one, damn them, is giving me any money for this. The story borrows bits from the The Bill (which is not mine either, ergo no money) and the rest is made up. 

Category: Some gore, a healthy amount of swearing (in the good way) and a smattering of tasteful filth. 

 

Chapter Two

 

Later, after Craig left me, I thought a lot about the first few times we met. I was so determined not to get involved with him, and he was so determined, in his quiet dogged way, to get involved with me. 

That was the thing, we were so different. He’s so calm, so focused, and I was neither. 

I miss a lot of things now, but strangely enough, I find myself missing my little workspace at the Bank of London a lot lately. 

I sat in an open plan office, but had the luxury of a corner desk, so I could sit with my back to the entire floor and pretend I was alone in the world when I needed to. 

My desk was patterned between Lisa the Lez and Eddie the Het. (There are no prizes for guessing I was Sean the poof.) They were my work friends. I miss them both, and I know they still miss me. 

We were the three programmers. We sat fairly close, and had a discreet and flexible level of tolerance to the amount of personal life that spilled out into our professional lives everyday. 

Eddie was always involved with some dangerous woman – often somebody’s wife – who was on the verge of suicide or mass murder. Lisa was always involved with some intense older woman who had difficult children and a penchant for gardening. I was always getting dumped. 

We thought eachother’s lives were interesting, but we none of us wanted to go there. 

I hadn’t told Eddie the Het or Lisa the Lez about Craig. I was grateful that I had managed to salvage that little bit of dignity, glad they didn’t know that I was on the reject pile once more. 

I was answering my emails on Wednesday morning when Craig caught me unawares again. I’d forgotten about him once more.

“Hey? How you been?” he said with a sweet voice when I answered my phone. 

My chest felt tight. I hate having to lie on the run. 

“Good, really good,” was all I said. 

“Did you get my message?” 

“No, sorry, did you leave one?” (See? I need a couple of seconds.)

“Yeah, I rang on Sunday.”

“Oh, sorry, voice mail thingy has been playing up. Sorry about that.”

“No worry, I thought it must have been something like that. Anyway, I thought we could catch up for a movie later this week if you’ve got time?” 

A movie? What the hell was he playing at? 

“Maybe we could go to dinner afterwards, if you like, if you haven’t got an early morning meeting?” 

I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to say do you think I’m ugly or dull or both, but I was not built to be that brave. 

“Are you there?” he said after a bit. 

“Yeah, sorry, I’m here.” I had raised my eyebrows so high I realised they would not go any higher, even when I tried. 

“What? Are you able to talk?” 

“Yeah, sure, sorry.” I tried to get my eyebrows up a bit further, but they were stuck mid brow. Dinner afterwards? 

He was being his patient, gentle self. “Is that a problem?” he said after a few seconds. 

“No,” I said, totally confused. “I just didn’t expect to hear from you again.” 

“Why not?” he asked quickly.

It seemed a bit silly now. “Well, you know, when you left on Saturday, after dinner, I just figured you didn’t want to see me again.” 

“Why? I said I wanted to see you again.” Now he sounded confused. 

“Yeah, but, I don’t know, I just got the impression that that was it.” It was embarrassing have to detail it, particularly since he didn’t have a clue what I was talking about. 

“Why?” he said, sounding a little heated, “Because I didn’t jump straight into bed with you?” 

Well, that was pretty much it. 

“Yeah, I suppose.” I felt ridiculous. Why was he doing this to me? Why couldn’t he find a blonde boy and leave me alone? 

“I really like you,” he said quietly. And that was it, his whole explanation. 

“Well, a kiss wouldn’t have killed you then,” I said quickly, and then straight away wished I hadn’t. 

I expected him to hang up, but instead he laughed. “Well, I wanted to, but I chickened out,” he said. 

So that’s when I actually started falling for him. 

I fell for him harder him later in the day. 

“Sean, I’ve got a Sergeant Gilmore down here to see you,” Mohinder the security guy said to me over the phone a few hours later. 

Sergeant Gilmore was in uniform, with his hat, when I got down to the foyer. He looked fabulous; one of those men made to be in uniform. 

“I thought we could get a quick cup of coffee,” he said, smiling. 

We went down to Nero’s, just down the street. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He looked beautiful.  

I don’t remember how many people were in the café that afternoon. I can’t even remember if I had coffee or tea. I’ve tried so many times to remember the ancillary details, but all I remember is how warm his hand was when he laid it over the top of mine. I remember that he didn’t look around to see if any one was looking or not. I remember learning then that he made no apologies to anyone for who he was or what he did, that he took full responsibility for himself. 

And we didn’t even talk about anything important. It was the gesture itself that he came to deliver – that he took time away from the office to drive half way across London to sit with me for twenty minutes so I knew how he felt. 

And that’s when I finally got him, got what he was about. There were no ulterior motives, no tricks, no smoke, no mirrors, no false bottoms. No innuendos. He was simply completely honest. Everything black or white, no grey blurs in between anything. He liked me, he wanted to court me, he wanted me to know that he respected me. When I didn’t grasp that, he came in person to tell me. 

When it was time to go, I walked him back to his car, which he’d parked in one of the countless bulky little alleys in EC1. He kissed me for the first time here, hat in one hand, the fingers of his other lightly passing over mine. It was nothing intense or prolonged, but wet and warm enough to make his intentions perfectly clear (and it confirmed I had been right about that mouth).

I was glowing when I got back to desk.  No man had ever been so sweet to me. 

He has a beautiful heart, I thought as I sat beaming at my terminal. 

A really beautiful heart. 

 

A Crack in the Teacup

by Baxter

 

##  Fandom: The Bill

Pairing: Craig/Luke 

Disclaimer: The characters are not mine, and no one, damn them, is giving me any money for this. The story borrows bits from the The Bill (which is not mine either, ergo no money) and the rest is made up. 

Category: Some gore, a healthy amount of swearing (in the good way) and a smattering of tasteful filth. 

 

Chapter Three

 

Ah, the first few months. 

 

We had great fun then, once I worked him out. He was definitely ripe for the picking, making no secret of the fact that he wanted to settle down. 

 

His idea of settling down was a little different to mine. He lived down in Sun Hill – a long way from my stamping ground – and he had his home all ready. He really did want a husband – not a boyfriend – and he wanted settled exclusive commitment. I never quite worked out why he thought I fitted the bill for his husband. I was gregarious, a bit loopy, certainly not as serious, and nowhere near as conservative. 

 

And, I have to be honest, gorgeous as he was, he wasn’t the kind of man I thought I’d settle down with. In fact, I wasn’t convinced I wanted to settle down at all. When I met him I thought maybe I did, but as the months went on, I became less certain. 

 

 *****************************

 

“Move in with me,” he said, eyes closed, lying against my chest in my bed, six weeks after we met. Not a suggestion, but a gentle demand. 

 

My heart leapt a little – it’s a great thing, when someone wants to commit to you – but even then he was showing signs that rung tiny alarm bells for me. I must have been ringing the same kinds of alarms for him, but he either didn’t hear them or chose to ignore them. 

 

Like what? 

 

Well, he was possessive.  That can be really nice in some ways, but Craig was completely rigid about it. Not that he stalked me or tried to brand me with his initials or anything like that, but as far as he was concerned it was a closed commitment. 

 

A lot of gay men have open relationships, in that casual sex with strangers is no big deal. It was no big deal to me – I can see clearly how you can have emotional commitment to one person, and still enjoy a bit of anonymous frolicking on the side. I think it’s healthy. 

 

Craig hated the thought, absolutely hated it. 

 

“If I wanted casual sex I wouldn’t be in a relationship,” he told me sternly as we sat amongst boxes of stuff, carefully packed and sealed. It was the weekend I moved in with him; we were spending the last night at my flat. 

 

“Does it bother you that much?” 

 

“Yep,” he said resolutely. “Why? Do you want to see other people?”

 

“No, but I think it’s unrealistic to negate the idea of ever being attracted to anyone else,” I replied, hesitant. 

 

He shrugged, taking me up close to him, under his chin. “I think it’s unrealistic to have a relationship with more than one person.”

 

“Casual sex isn’t a relationship,” I continued. “I don’t think it affects a relationship at all. It can be a good thing, if we’re honest about it.”

 

He was silent for moment, stroking my back with his fingertips.

 

“Well?” I was waiting. 

 

“I just hate the idea of sharing you with anyone,” he said. 

 

“I’m not a possession.” 

 

He kissed my temple lightly, almost in passing. 

 

“I know that. I don’t think of you as my property. But the relationship between us is. It’s really private to me, really precious.” He stopped while he thought for a moment, lightly brushing his face against my forehead. “I just think that when two people are committed to each other, and respect each other, they don’t need to supplement the relationship with outsiders.” 

 

I thought this was unrealistic and told him so. “Anyway, it’s such a straight myth,” I concluded, “that two people are stuck with each other forever.” 

 

“Well, I think the idea that screwing around is a great thing is a myth too, you know, that you’re entitled to fuck anything you want as a passing fancy.” He sucked his bottom lip slightly, gathering his thoughts. “ And I don’t see myself as stuck with you. I want to be here.” 

 

“It’s just sex,” I said. I thought he was taking it way too seriously.  

 

“Sex isn’t just sex, not if you’re in a committed relationship,” he told me softly. “It’s really important. It’s…” But he couldn’t explain what it was, or maybe he wasn’t prepared to. 

 

In any case, Craig and I never resolved it, because we could never agree on it. And don’t get me wrong, I didn’t want to screw around haphazardly, but I didn’t want to think that I wasn’t allowed to either. 

 

So it hardly bears mentioning that when I did, it caused us big problems. 

 

 

But in the first few months, we were very happy. He was protective, affectionate, gentle, a little territorial, utterly uninterested in partying or wild life. He liked to have friends over to dinner, he liked visiting friends for dinner, he liked theatre and movies, he liked sitting around talking, provided all the housework was done. 

 

There was nothing impulsive about him – everything was planned and undertaken carefully. I used to try to get him to break out a little, to come out, play around, but he simply didn’t have that kind of spontaneity. 

 

He was an interesting man to live with. Not a bad cook, clean and tidy, surprisingly handy with a hammer and nail. Practical. He spoke with his family a lot, and seemed enviably close to his mum and dad. (My father, at best, was indifferent to me; I’m not sure my stepmother even knew my name.)

 

But I’m telling you about Craig. He read just about all my books, and he liked talking about them afterwards. He’d read pretty widely before he met me, but he seemed to lack a bit of confidence in his taste and opinions, at least in that respect. I’d never met a man like that, interested in learning more about books.  I’m proud to say that I introduced him to lots of good books and writers. He became something of a W.H Auden fan, and read just about all my Graham Greenes. 

 

One of his is absolute utter passions was running. He used to get up at the most ungodly hours, in all kinds of hideous weather, and go running for an hour. He’d come back slimy with sweat, his hair at its most uncontrollable, invariably horny, nudging me awake with hot kisses, insistent and a little aggressive. (It was very attractive in the early days, then it became a bit annoying, and towards the end he used to come back from his run and just get straight in the shower.)

 

 *********************************

 

 

Relationships rarely fall apart for one single reason, and rarely do they fall apart in seconds. Cracks and torments appear in the foundations slowly, leaving it ill prepared for larger blows that might sneak up later. 

 

Our cracks started after about six months. It started to grate on me, his absolute unshakeable dedication to his job. I mean, I worked hard too, and bloody long hours a lot of the time, but I was more social, more gregarious. I wanted to go out more, mix more often. He was tired and wanted to stay home, sit around and talk.  

 

And in true Gilmore style, he wouldn’t talk about it. Anytime I’d bring it up he’d clam shut. “It’s my job. I have to put in long hours.” And that was it. Implacable, rigid Craig. The less he spoke, the more I’d yell. 

 

Then we’d try to patch it up, gentle and tender, hating the way we hurt each other, and we’d be okay for a couple of days. Then it would start again  - him never home, me the police widow. It was really stressful. 

 

I started going out occasionally without him – nowhere special – drinking with Steph and Richard maybe, dancing with some old friends. 

 

He didn’t seem to mind. 

 

Don’t get me wrong. He wasn’t inattentive. I’d get cute little e-mails from him during the day, he often called just to see how my day was going, and if I was having a crisis at work (and I had lots of crises) he’d be supportive and concerned. 

 

But in some ways he just wasn’t there, if you see what I mean. He was tired most nights, sometimes he worked night shift and we’d barely see each other for a week or more.  Our sex life, which had been pretty damned amazing in the first few months, started to wane pretty quickly. And again, he wouldn’t talk about it. I don’t know now whether it would have made any difference. 

 

Anyway, I think both of us, in our own very different ways, realised as the months passed that in one way or another that we weren’t as compatible as maybe we thought. 

 

It was Craig who summed it up, months later when I ran into him at the hospital. “We loved each other, but we weren’t in love.” And he was absolutely right. We liked a lot of things about each other; physically we had some fantastic moments. But we weren’t alike, and we weren’t in tune.

 

That’s not to say we weren’t happy – frequently we were – but no hearts and rockets. 

 

“I think people are really unrealistic about love,” he said to me once when we were washing up, talking about a friend of mine who was getting married. “I don’t believe in that grand passion crap, and I don’t believe in love at first sight.” 

He stacked some plates away and threaded his arms around me. “I think what we have is much more real,” he told me as he kissed my forehead. 

 

Well, I’ve had the hearts and rockets, and I think they’re great. Poor Craig, at that stage, never had. They fell way outside his plans and strategies. 

 

No wonder they wounded him so badly when they blasted all over him the way they did. 

 

************************

 

 

We’d been living together for eleven months when things started to fall apart. Like I told you, the cracks were already there, but it was me who hammered in the first crippling blow. 

 

I had to go to Dublin for a conference; Craig was working the 2 – 10pm shift. We had both been really busy for the past couple of weeks, and planned to spend the following weekend together after I came back.  Steph and Richard were meeting us for lunch in Islington on Saturday, then we were going to buy some paint. That kind of weekend. 

 

It’s horrible to go into the gruesome details, so I’ll give you the Reader’s Digest version: Boy goes to conference – meets boy from IT faculty at Trinity College at conference – exchanges mobile numbers on pretext of networking and exchanging ideas - Irish boy texts London boy that night – meet for drinks – ends up in my room - only gets about two hours sleep. 

 

It’s no big deal, I told myself afterwards. I didn’t even get his surname. And he lived in Dublin; Craig would never find out. He didn’t even know that there was a Craig. 

 

Craig was waiting for me at Stanstead on the Friday afternoon to take me home. He was so happy to see me; I felt a slight flicker of guilt when I saw his lovely face. 

 

“I’ve missed you!” he said, leaning over to kiss me as I climbed into the car.

 

“Missed you too,” I assured him. 

 

He had to go back to work, but when he came home late that night I cooked a great dinner and we had the perfect evening, talking and nuzzling and laughing, and then great sex. He really had missed me. 

 

“Steph’s going to text me the name of the place we’re going to.” I told Craig the next morning as I was stepping the shower. “Check my mobile if you hear it beep.” 

 

So that’s how Craig found out about Irish Boy, who texted me while I was in the shower:

#  Great fuck, great time! Im in London nxt wkd want to meet up? 

The worst thing was not how angry Craig was, but how angry he wasn’t. He was hurt, really hurt and confused. He could barely speak to me as he tossed the mobile at me. 

 

“It was just a casual thing, for Christ sakes,’ I said, following him into the bedroom. 

 

“He doesn’t think so,” he said quietly. He was so calm, soulless even. 

 

“It was nothing, just sex,” I told him. 

 

“The why do it, if it’s nothing? And if it’s nothing, why not tell me?” He continued to talk quietly, which just made me more hysterical. 

 

“Would you honestly want me to tell you?” 

 

“I’d rather hear it from you than your mobile,” he said bitterly. 

 

“Look, come here,” I was trying to put my arms around him, “We have to talk about it.” He took the embrace reluctantly, not moving. 

 

“You know what?” he said suddenly, pulling away, “I really don’t. I really don’t want to talk to you at all at the moment, and I really don’t want to go to lunch.”  He turned away and took a navy blue fleece out of his top drawer, silently pulling it over the top of his head. 

 

“Where are you going?” 

 

“Work. I’ve got a ton of stuff to do.” And he just walked out, closing the door quietly behind him. 

 

I met up with Richard and Steph myself. Richard left early, so I took that opportunity to debrief with Steph. We’d been friends for years, and she was well versed in the art of casual sex, which made her response all the more surprising. 

 

“You bloody fool,” she said.  And when I stared at her, astonished, she went on. “Well, what do you want from someone? I mean, what else could anyone ask for in a partner? Craig is so nice, and he adores you. I don’t blame him for not speaking to you.” 

 

So that’s when Steph and I stopped talking. 

 

Now I don’t want you to think that I felt blameless here, or badly done by. I lied to him, and I shouldn’t have. But it honestly didn’t seem like a big deal to me. That’s what I was thinking in the dark, lying on the couch with a bottle of red, when Craig came home that night. He didn’t turn any lights on, just walked over to me, helping himself to a taste from my glass. 

 

He sat down on the floor and leant his head back on my stomach. I lightly scratched his head, waiting to hear what he was going to say. 

 

He didn’t say anything. Instead, he gently and slowly clambered on top of me and then tore into me, wilful and still hurt, but passionate and intense, almost as if he thought he could take the taste of the other man out of my mouth. 

 

We were on the floor when we finished, our clothes all over the place in the dark, and he was streaked with sweat. 

 

“Do you still love me?” I asked him as we lay there. 

 

“Yes,” was all he said. But he never said the phrase itself, simply agreed to it. 

 

He forgave me – I know he did – but he never forgot it. And I know he never trusted me again. 

 

Which is why I was so angry, so absolutely furiously bloody angry, when he was dishonest with me. 

 

 ***********************************

 

We’d been together for nearly eighteen months when Craig came home one Monday night, covered in the scars of hearts and rockets.  It was July, early July. 

 

 I was in bed, reading How To Be Alone when he came in with a look I didn’t recognise. 

 

“Hi,” I said, wondering why he hadn’t made himself anything to eat. 

 

“Hi,” he answered quickly, climbing over the top of me, his face soft, bumping at mine, his mouth wet and seeking.  He hadn’t been like this for ages, certainly not on a weeknight after fourteen hours at work. He was hot, really excited, like he’d been thinking of it all day.  

 

Well, he had. 

 

All mouth and fingers, he couldn’t get his fill quickly enough. His eyes closed, moaning at every touch, his hands on me a different way, almost as if he was touching a different person. Which, in his mind, he was.  Hearts and rockets. 

 

That night of great sex was really the beginning of the end for us.  I’d been in enough relationships to know when your partner is thinking of someone else. 

 

I tried to raise it with him gently, and he’d get defensive and hostile. I’d get heated, he’d clam up tighter. This made me worse, more hysterical. 

 

“Tell me who it is!” I roared at him a couple of weeks later for the twentieth time. “Just fucking tell me!” 

 

And again he just looked away. “No one,” he answered irritably. “There isn’t anyone.”  

 

 The fights got worse.  He refused to discuss it so I grew more hysterical, pleading with him to tell me who it was. He’d just say it over and over - no one, there isn’t any one, but one day, he just didn’t say anything. That was the worst thing, I think, that final confirmation. There was someone. 

 

“Who?” I asked, almost in tears. 

 

He shook his head, but he couldn’t answer me. 

 

“Someone at work? Another fucking cop?” 

 

Silence again. And, true to form, I got hysterical again. 

 

It got to the stage where we could barely exchange a civil word.  He moved into the spare room; a couple of times I just didn’t bother coming home. 

 

Then I came home from work one Monday night and saw he had already moved half his stuff into another place.  I was murderous. We stood and roared at each other for maybe fifteen minutes before I stormed out. I never came home that night either.  The next day I called in sick, went home and chucked the rest of Craig’s things in boxes. Everything I could find, everything I’d given him, everything he’d given me. 

 

Then I didn’t know what to. I stood in the lounge staring at the bits and pieces, hating him. Wanting to hurt him in the worse way possible, which, of course, is through his precious job. So I took the lot and dumped it all at Sun Hill Police Station. 

 

Ha! 

 

I wish I could say that was it, but I did other things to him after he moved out. The toaster and the orchid. Damn, I regret that, kicking his door down. At the time though, I was so happy to see the police from his own nick turn up. 

 

And that young copper, cute little twink that he was, who came and fetched the orchid for me. If only I’d known. I remember watching Twinkie in the rear view mirror when he drove me home; his handsome young face grave and nervous, shooting me disapproving glances. 

 

The hearts and rockets boy and I didn’t even know it. 

 

The toaster was Craig’s, but the orchid was definitely mine. I actually can’t remember who owned the photo frame. Not that mattered in the end. 

 

Then, a couple of days later, I cleaned out the joint account, took every last cent that we’d saved together, nearly fifteen hundred quid. And you know, he never said a word. 

 

But of course those kinds of measures only bring temporary relief. When I thought about it later, I couldn’t work out why I was so vindictive towards Craig. He didn’t do anything, just fell in love properly for the first time in his life.  I don’t know. Maybe I was angry with myself for sabotaging the relationship; maybe I was angry that I’d fooled myself about the relationship. 

 

Maybe I was angry that what should have been the perfect relationship simply wasn’t. 

 

The things you do, the ways you hurt people. The sheer bloody pointlessness of it all. 

A Crack in the Teacup

by Baxter

 

##  Fandom: The Bill

Pairing: Craig/Luke 

Disclaimer: The characters are not mine, and no one, damn them, is giving me any money for this. The story borrows bits from the The Bill (which is not mine either, ergo no money) and the rest is made up. 

Category: Some gore, a healthy amount of swearing (in the good way) and a smattering of tasteful filth. 

 

Chapter Four

 

I don’t talk with my family much. My father doesn’t much approve of “my lifestyle”, as he calls it, and my stepmother doesn’t approve of anything much except herself. (My real mother, whom I still adore, died when I was eight.) 

Come to think of it, I don’t much approve of my father or his lifestyle either. He works in real estate, and to say he is wealthy is an understatement. He’s rolling in it. Which, in a roundabout way of telling the story, is why I did my degrees in computer science and economics, not Art History, which is what I wanted to do. My father told me that I would forfeit my inheritance unless I found my career in business, and so I did. 

But that spineless compliance allowed me a bit leeway. After Craig left, I found myself in a rather expensive two bedroom flat that I didn’t really like and would eventually be unable to afford. Because I kept “my lifestyle” out of my father’s judgemental gaze, and because I had done his bidding and eschewed the arts as a career, I was able to ask him if I could move in to one of his flats for a few months until I was back on my feet. 

He gave me the keys to a small but rather tasteful one-bedroom place in Bromley. Not my number one choice of location, but certainly enough until I sorted myself out. 

“You’ll probably inherit it one day anyway,” Father said off-handedly as he gave me the keys. I hate it when he says things like that. 

So there I was, sleeping around haphazardly, missing Craig in theory more than in practice and spending the joint account like there was no tomorrow. I stopped seeing our old friends, and hardly gave anyone my new phone number. I spent most of my free times with strangers, haphazard strangers. 

I had no idea what happened to Craig in that time. After I got my orchid back I never went near him, and he made no attempt to contact me. I thought about contacting him in December, to wish him a Merry Christmas.  Maybe I missed him in practice a bit. 

Anyway, it never happened because I started to get sick around then. First I found it hard to keep food down, so I went and saw a naturopath who recommended cutting out dairy and wheat products. Then my appetite started fading, which was probably a blessing in disguise because wheat and dairy free foods are extremely boring. 

For a while there I was terrified that I had HIV. To my relief my test came back clear, so I decided I just had a bad stomach virus, maybe from stress. The naturopath thought it was stress-related too, and recommended I take some time off work. I didn’t want to, but by late January I had no choice. I got sicker, and my weight loss became apparent. 

Finally I caved in and went to my doctor who thought at first it was ulcers, and then she thought it was growths. 

“This will take a couple of days,” she said, writing the referral letters. She was sending me to hospital for a series of fairly disgusting tests.  

So the next time I saw Craig was the following February.

 **********************************

I actually saw Craig’s file before I saw him. That was the funny thing, they hung our files side by side on the big rack outside the nurses’ station. Seemed like too greater a coincidence, that Gilmore, Craig could be the same one, but I went looking along my floor anyway, stopping at each ward to see if I could find him.

It was a horrible shock, not just that he was so battered and cut up, but seeing him so utterly defeated, lying there staring at nothing, completely uninterested in everything. 

“Craig,” I said gently, wondering whether it was a good idea to speak with him or not. 

He turned his head slowly, the effort clearly causing him great discomfort. He looked at me with sad heavy eyes – I wasn’t entirely sure that he recognised me until he half smiled, and moved his left hand slightly. 

“Hello stranger,” he answered, his eyes lighting up a little. 

I wonder, if we’d both been healthy and in getting on in normal everyday life, whether we would have bothered to acknowledge each other. But now, broken and vulnerable as we both were, there was something curiously comforting about being able to talk together. 

He lasted about twenty-five minutes with me that day. I learnt enough to know that he’d been badly beaten, including a very bad injury to his knee that was really worrying him.  Apparently the creep who beat him stomped twice on his knee, cracking the actual cap and squashing the surrounding cartilage and joint. The surgeons had already operated on it once, and it seemed they were getting ready to have a second attempt. Anyone else was would have been worried about the pain or the rehabilitation, but not my Gilmore. 

“I’m terrified it won’t heal, and they’ll pension me out,” he said with real despair. 

The job. Always the bloody job. 

And he asked about me, his eyes worried, his bruised punctured hand gently easing over mine. 

“What do they think it is?” he asked in a hoarse voice. 

“Dunno,” I told him truthfully. “Growths, probably.” And that’s all I was prepared to believe it was, just growths. 

He drifted off a little while later, but I sat with him a bit longer, stroking his hand. 

They discharged me a couple of days later with a muddied prognosis. The gastroenterologists thought it might be tumours, but it didn’t look bad, they thought. It was likely that they’d have to cut them out, but they wanted to do more tests in three weeks time, to see if the growths were, well, growing, and whether they really needed to come out. 

I had an excellent insurance plan, and plenty of leave, so I didn’t have to worry about work yet. After they discharged me I still had ten days leave, so I went back to the hospital everyday, always expecting that that Craig would get a bit brighter. It never happened. I know now that even though his body was healing slowly, his beautiful heart had had the life thumped out of it, and that it wouldn’t restore itself for a long while. 

He didn’t seem to have any other visitors. He’d had his phone stolen (he thought maybe the person who attacked him stole it; I reckon it was on of those lowlife who makes their living stealing things from hospital patients) so he wasn’t able to call friends. 

“I don’t want to talk to anyone,” he said with a weary voice when I suggested getting him another phone. 

Not long before Craig was discharged – a week maybe – I arrived with some clean pyjamas and some shaving cream just as his father was leaving. I had met Craig’s family several times, and I thought I was pretty good terms with them. So it was a shock when his father just walked straight past me without so much as a nod. 

“Family feud?” I asked the patient, who looked more miserable and more defeated.  

“That’s putting it mildly,” Craig answered. He turned his head away and sighed. 

I knew him well enough to recognise the warning signs of clamming up, so I put his pyjamas away in the bureau and changed the subject.

“So? Any news on your knee?” They’d operated again about four days ago, and Craig, understandably, was hanging out to find out when he could go back to work. 

He sighed again. 

“They say it’ll be six to eight weeks before they know for sure.” 

My heart went out to him when I saw the look on his face, but at that stage I only knew a third of the story. 

*****************************

By the time he was discharged we were great mates. No romance – we were both too far gone for that by that stage – but we both knew that we desperately needed a crutch, and we were familiar enough to find comfort in the crutch we could offer each other. 

And Craig had real crutches too; for the first couple of weeks that was the only way he could get around.  I can honestly say of all the things that I’ve seen annoy Craig, nothing comes close to those crutches.

He didn’t seem to want to go home to his own place, and was a little frustrated at his lack of choices of where to go. 

“Stay at my place,” I said to him the day before he was discharged. I really wanted with company, and I was genuinely worried for him. I didn’t think he could look after himself. 

He was so grateful I thought he’d start crying. 

“Don’t you cry on me, you big queen,” I warned him playfully. (We used to camp it up like this a lot in the early days. It would to make us both laugh, especially him. I can’t remember when we stopped playing with each other like that.) 

 He laughed a little, and squeezed my hand. “Thanks,” he said. “I can’t face my own place.” 

“Expecting visitors?” I said waggishly. 

“No,” he said with a little smile. “That’s precisely why I don’t want to be there.” 

So he settled in with me, hopping around the house and cursing his crutches, cooking with me from time to time, sleeping on the sofa. 

“You worried I’m going make a lunge for your throbbing manhood while you sleep? Is that why you won’t share the bed with me?” I joked with him over breakfast one morning. 

“No,” he laughed. “I’m worried you’re going to find out that my manhood has stopped throbbing.” 

I laughed with him. Well, you had to laugh. It was so depressing otherwise. 

It was nice, that first month before they finally hit on what I actually had. We were gentle with each other, and truly grateful for the company. And then, as I got sicker, and he started to get better, we started to depend on each other in different ways. 

********************************** 

We’d sneak back to his place in the late nights to collect his mail and some clothes from time to time. He had an almost pathological aversion to being there, as if he was terrified of having to speak to anyone. 

“You’ve got messages on your answering machine,” I told him one cold snowy night, getting in the car and tossing him his mail. He still couldn’t drive yet, and at that stage I still could. 

“They’ll keep,” he said, not caring. 

He got letters from the Met all the time. They were paying his rent and his sickness pension, cold comfort that it was. He wanted to go back to work, but the orthopaedic surgeon was hedging his bets, refusing to commit to a straightforward yes or no. 

Craig remained optimistic. He never once thought that he wouldn’t get back to work, planning for the time when he could walk properly again and get back into uniform. 

A couple of times I wondered if I should try and get him making alternative plans, but he steadfastly refused to counter the idea. 

“It’s just taking longer to heal than I thought. It’ll be alright, it just takes time,” he told me. And he believed it. “I’m a copper. I couldn’t do anything else,” he told me resolutely. “What else could I do?” 

 

*************************

I’d planned to go back to work in early March; my supervisor said that I could work three-day weeks if I wanted. I was still having trouble eating, and the appetite stimulants they gave me made me jumpy and restless. 

I had another biopsy in the last week of February, and that was supposed to reveal all. Everything was supposed to go back to normal – plain diagnosis, straightforward treatment, normal life again. 

And then – well, the best laid plans of mice of men. 

Spreading adenocarcinoma. How’s that for a death sentence.  

It’s cancer, a less common and incredibly aggressive kind that zips over the lining of your organs like a grass fire. Because it is a film, rather than growths, it is difficult to detect. And it is occurs mostly amongst specific ethnic groups – Jewish and Japanese, for example. Had they asked my heritage, they might have worked it out quicker, for my lovely mother was Jewish. 

The specialist said that they could remove the affected parts of my stomach and spleen, and then try some chemotherapy, but after careful questioning it became apparent that it was not a cancer that people recover from. It was a nasty, fast acting killer cancer. It was killing me as I sat there, talking to her. 

Craig held my hand the whole time we were with the doctor. When I drove us home he looked out the window but kept his hand on my leg, respectful and kind. 

He stayed next to me when we got home, taking my hand again when I slumped down on the couch, up against the neat folded pile of blankets and pillows that he slept on every night.    

I didn’t really say anything at first, and then, when we started to talk about it, sitting there as the flat grew darker and colder, it suddenly hit me properly. There was no real point to anything. I was going to die, and fairly soon. 

“I’m going to die,” I said to Craig, lying against him in the dark. It is the strangest thing to hear yourself say - you wouldn’t say something like that unless it was true, yet you can barely believe it when you say it. 

He was still holding my hand in that way he had, laying his hand over the top of mine, linking in fingers in amongst my own. He squeezed a little, and then drew me a little closer. I was thinking then how hard it must be to answer someone when they tell you that. 

“I’m not going to leave you,” he said quietly. And then I started to cry for the first of many times in those last months.

I cried all night, and, true to his word as always, Craig sat with me, squeezing my hand and wiping my face. 

*********************

As soon you’re diagnosed with something like this, the first thing you lose – before your body starts packing it in piece by piece – is the ability to make choices about what you want to do. I no longer was able to plan to go to New York next year, or find a flat closer to the City, or think about what I might like to be doing in five years time. It isn’t about your life, any more, but what you might do with the bit of life you have left. 

And you have to change it, what life you have left. I had to quit my job, cash in my insurance, and I had to work out what I wanted for the last few months.

Craig talked about it with me for hours, ever patient, ever sensible, and although we must have gone through every possible permutation of what you could do in three months, I never decided anything. In the end I thought I just wanted to live day by day. Nothing else seemed to matter much any more. 

When we first found out, Craig (who was walking with a stick now) would take me for a walk every day. 

“I hate walking by myself,” he’d say, “Come and keep me company.” I knew that was a lie, but I knew what he was trying to do. 

We’d go down to the gardens in the park, down along the river, or just around the streets, looking at other people’s ordinary lives, watching them walk past pushing prams, holding hands, walking alone or in groups. 

It was funny, we spent more time together then than we ever had as a couple. We got to know a few people on our walks – you know, old people doing their gardening, a couple of the people who worked in the local fruit shop, a married Sudanese couple who lived in my building. We both liked the Sudanese couple. They were a beautiful, arresting pair – both had deep-dark skin, eminently cheerful and polite. She was pregnant, and he was so excited about being a father.  

We never mentioned it to each other, but we both saw the irony – the lovely Sudanese-English baby would be born around the same time that I would die. 

So Craig and I walked the streets and parks of Bromley, talking about nothing in particular; the conversation only marked by the fact that everything was in the present. We hadn’t got to the stage where it was worthwhile looking back, and there certainly wasn’t any point looking towards the future. When one of us inadvertently did, I’d invariably start crying. 

It’s horrible, knowing how finite you really are. 

Then, as the hideous stain spread through me, walking became harder. It was funny, really, the harder it became for me the easier it became for Craig. He still limped, and his knee still ached, but he could walk good distances and had long since discarded the stick. He was going to take it back to the hospital but I started using it, which made us both laugh. 

“I think it looked better on me,” he told me dryly as I hobbled out for breakfast one morning. 

Then they started hacking pieces of the stained organs away - first a portion of my stomach, then my spleen, then a bit of my liver. Then I had the chemo, which was, I think, the worst of all the things they did me, filling me with radiation, trying to fry the cancerous cells in their tracks. My hair fell out in a matter of days, my skin went grey and it was all I could do to keep a swallow of water without throwing it back up.

As it spread through me further, I ended up in hospital more frequently. I had two series of chemo, and both times the cells beat the uranium. 

Finally, though, there was simply no point trying to keep up with it. The poisonous cells started linking hands all the way to my kidneys. 

Every time I was in hospital, Gilmore visited twice a day, gentle, concerned, comforting. I think I would have died a lot quicker if it weren’t for him. 

Then came the day we both heard our death knolls. 

“There’s nothing else we can do for you, Sean,” the specialist told me. She was lovely, very kind, recommending counselling services and all kinds of palliative care support, but it was not really what I wanted to hear. I wanted to hear that someone had made a shocking mistake and that in a couple of days I was going to be fine and start living again after all. 

Craig was with me, holding my hand so hard it hurt. He said nothing, just squeezed. 

Earlier that morning, although he didn’t tell me for a couple of days, Craig had been to see his specialist too.

“Your knee is not going to get any better,” the surgeon finally admitted.  “The limp is permanent, and the strength of the actual joint is only fair. You don’t meet the fitness requirements to serve in the Police Force any longer, I’m afraid.” 

At least I was expecting my news. 

 

A Crack in the Teacup

by Baxter

 

##  Fandom: The Bill

Pairing: Craig/Luke 

Disclaimer: The characters are not mine, and no one, damn them, is giving me any money for this. The story borrows bits from the The Bill (which is not mine either, ergo no money) and the rest is made up. 

Category: Some gore, a healthy amount of swearing (in the good way) and a smattering of tasteful filth. 

 

Chapter Five

 

We were laying on the bed, me bald and skinny wearing Craig’s pyjamas, him in on of my cotton sweaters and a pair of his old rugby shorts. Craig was holding his termination papers, which had arrived in the post a few hours earlier. 

“Why didn’t you tell me the day you heard?” I asked him, holding his hand for a change. 

He looked at me, half smiling, and didn’t say anything. 

“Oh, that’s right,” I said in a poofy voice, “I’ve got a terminal disease.” 

He laughed, liked I hoped he would, but when I looked at him, I could see he was teary. 

Oh, it’s not the end of the world, I was going to say (and Christ knows I’d be the one to comment on that) but for him, it actually was.  

And then he told me the whole story – hearts and rockets and his dad. 

******************

“So the young cop – the Twink who came when I kicked your door in?” 

Craig just nodded, his mouth tight and hard, his tongue pushing against his bottom lip inside. 

“What – you walked up to him in the gym and tried to kiss him?” It was the most unbelievable thing I’d ever heard. “What’d he do?”

“He tried to bitch slap me!” Gilmore said in his camp voice, and we both laughed. 

“I just can’t imagine you doing that,” I said when we calmed down. “I mean, it’s just so not you.” 

“You’re right,” he answered. “I just – I don’t know, I just couldn’t stand it a minute longer.”

‘Well, he was cute,” I offered, but Craig just snorted a bit.

“He just kept doing things for me, things that showed he really did care, and I’d think, he’s coming around, he’s working it out, and if I took one step towards him he’d take a hundred back,” he said bitterly. “It was driving me insane.” 

Craig was taking me through the whole Luke story. It was nice, lying there together, talking like this. It kept Craig’s mind off his job, at least for a while, and it was very interesting for me. A whole side of Gilmore I never knew about. 

“So did he enjoy it?” I asked, when Craig told me about the night they spent together. 

Craig was silent for a few seconds, considering this then he shrugged his shoulders. 

“Well, I thought he did. If he didn’t enjoy it then he should consider a job in movies because he’s a great actor,” he said sourly. 

“Did he  - you know –  reciprocate? Did he put out?”  
  
 

Craig nodded. “I was really surprised. I thought he’d just want to mess around a bit, but he was pretty enthusiastic.” 

“Oh, a gentleman never kisses and tells,” I said in my camp voice. “So what’d you do?”

And he blushed. He’s thirty-three for God’s sake, and he must have been to bed with twenty men if he’s been to bed with one – including me, I might add – and he blushes. 

“Come on Taffy! Tell me what you did!” I was teasing him, and he knew this. I leant over and whispered to him. “Did he give you a mouthful?” 

Craig laughed, embarrassed. “He asked me to.” 

“And did he reciprocate?” 

“I wouldn’t let him.”

WHAT?” I said that so emphatically my stomach hurt, and I had to double over. 

“You okay?” Craig said, getting up, trying to lift me up in the sitting position. It took a few seconds for the pain to go down. 

“I’m fine,” I gasped at him when the ache subsided. “Now tell me WHY you wouldn’t let him go down on you or I’ll have another attack.” 

Craig shook his head. “I don’t know. I didn’t want him to think that’s all I wanted. I didn’t want it to be some sordid thing, me taking advantage of him. I wanted it to be nice for him,” he said, his voice getting quieter. “It was his first time. I wanted..,” and he stopped all of a sudden, bleak and getting ready to clam up. 

I took his hand for a change and stroked it a little. It was really starting to upset him, but he steeled himself and went on. 

“It wasn’t about the sex, not for me anyway. It was about him realising what he is, and I wanted him to realise that without thinking he had to prove something to me.” 

“It’s hardly the point,” I told him as he settled back down next to me. 

He just shrugged. “It was his first time. He’d been drinking…I don’t know. It was the right thing at the time.” 

“But you must have been up for it.” 

He looked at me with a pretend-exasperated look, trying not to smile. “I can look after myself,” he said coyly. It made me laugh, the way he said it. 

“Well, did he give you a hand?” I was doing this to tease him, but also because I knew he wanted to tell me. 

“He assisted, yes,” he said in his best Sergeant’s voice, blushing more.

“And?”

“Oh, what d’you want?” he said, pretending to be annoyed. “Polaroids?” 

“Do you have any?” I said in my camp voice, and we both laughed.  

“It was just really nice,” he said after a few seconds. “No pressure, no nerves, it was just really nice. I thought…well, it doesn’t matter what I thought. I was obviously wrong.” 

“Tell me anyway,” I said. 

“I thought he’d stay. I mean, I didn’t expect him to get up the morning and declare his undying love for me, but I thought.. I mean, it was genuine,  he acted as if he really liked me, like he really did care.  I thought he’d call the wedding the off. It – well, I thought he realised what he wanted.”

“You thought he realised he was a poof!” I used my camp voice again. 

Gilmore smiled bitterly. “Well, it seemed bloody obvious to me. I couldn’t believe it when he just walked off the next morning.” 

And then he told me what happened the next morning. I thought he’d start spitting fire when he talked about Gina. She made him nearly as angry as the crutches. 

“So – let me get this straight – he takes you to bed with him, lets you go down on him,  has his filthy way with you too – and then just walks off the next day and gets married?” 

Craig nodded.  

“And the blushing bride?” 

“Hasn’t got a clue.” 

“Well, she will soon enough. Have you seen him since?” 

And then he told me about the hospital, Gina making him lie for the bride.

“Why didn’t you tell them all that Luke’s a poof, Kerry’s a blonde, Gina’s an interfering bitch and fuck off the lot of you?” I couldn’t believe it. 

“He was terrified. He didn’t want to be outed. And it’s not my job to out him.” 

“It’s not your job to take the blame for his bloody inability to face up to himself either,” I said. I was so angry anyone could treat Craig like this. “How do you feel about him now?”

He just shrugged. I assumed then that he was over the worse of it, because he wouldn’t answer. In any case, I couldn’t see how you could still like anyone who’d do that to you.

“Then what?”

“Then dad found out,” Craig sighed. 

Now that I just didn’t understand, the parents.  I always envied Craig’s relationship with his parents. I knew they weren’t one hundred per cent comfortable with him being gay, but they were supportive, and certainly mollified by his choice of career. 

“How’d he find out?”

Craig laughed bitterly. “I told him.” 

“You told him?”

“Well, he saw Luke late in the afternoon, when they were x-raying my knee.  Luke kept hanging around, and Dad spoke to him a bit. Then when Luke had gone, Dad was asking about my transfer, which Luke must have told him about. I didn’t say anything, but he kept bringing it up every time he came back. He knew I was keeping something from him, and I just got sick of lying about it. I mean, I’d been lying about it for six months. So eventually I just told him I’d been involved with one of my relief and had to get away from him. I just couldn’t be bothered making something up. Besides, I’d lost track of what had really happening and what hadn’t.” 

His face changed from bitter to angry. 

“I mean, why did I have to keep lying about it? He’s my father for Christ’s sake. I thought he’d be a bit more sympathetic.” 

“What’d he say?”

“He went barmy,” was Craig’s succinct description. “He blew it all out of proportion, like I’d been harassing Luke or whatever, and he told me I was a fool, compromising myself like that with another copper. _Interfering_ was his word. Like I’d bloody molested him or something.” 

He looked over at me and sighed. 

“Go on.” 

“So I told him to mind his own bloody business and leave me alone,” Craig explained. “That just made him worse really, ‘cause I had never spoken to him like that and he was very pissed off.”

“What did he say?”  
  
 

“He just kept going on about how he expected more from me, that he couldn’t believe I’d be so stupid.” Craig looked over at me, picking up his letter again, grey around the gills and damp eyed. “Then he said he felt like he didn’t know me any more, and I said he’d never really known me at all, because if he did he wouldn’t be speaking to me like that.” Craig looked down, crushing his lips together, his face regretful and drawn. “Bad thing to say,” he sighed. “Anyway, the day you ran into him was the last time I saw him or mum.”

“So what, they’re just not talking to you?”

“Well, not as far as I can tell.” He looked at the letter again then tossed it aside. “Fuck the lot of them,” he said finally. “Fuck the Met, fuck Luke, fuck the lot of them.” 

I notice he didn’t say fuck the family. Despite his misery he’d never speak so disrespectfully about his family. Their opinion of him was important to him, although he’d never say as much.  And I know he adored his parents. 

So there we were, me with my cancerous insides, him with his cancerous life, both falling apart in different ways on the bed. It was as if the universe was conspiring to take everything he loved away from him in an orderly methodical fashion. Luke, his job, his parents. 

Craig sighed and squeezed my hand. 

“You have to eat something,” he said, signifying the subject was well and truly changed. 

“You should talk about this more,” I told him. Well, I had nothing to lose. 

“Nothing to say, really,” he said after a bit. 

“What about Luke?” 

“He’s married,” Craig laughed bitterly. “Married with a kid on the way. Let’s hope he’s a more understanding father than mine.” 

******************

About six weeks before I died, Craig went on the rounds to gather my friends, tell them what had been happening, and get them over the bloody goodbyes. Steph came around soon after, weepy and distraught. I’m glad we made up; I just wish it could have been in nicer circumstances. 

And then Craig went to see my horrible family, my stepmother, my father, my sisters. 

“They have to know,” he said reasonably, helping me drink some juice. He used to hold the glass for me – my hands were so weak I couldn’t get a grip anymore – and he got into the habit of carrying small hand towels around with him, to wipe my face whenever I ate something, or threw up. 

“Yeah, they should know,” I agreed, “But they won’t care.” 

He took the glass from me and placed it by the table. 

“When it’s over for you, they have to claim you. Legally they’ll be entitled to toss me out of here and take over everything,” he said, quiet and holding my gaze steadily. 

I didn’t want to hear about this, but he went on, holding my hand in both of his, tugging it a little to get my full attention. 

“We have to sort this out,” he said finally. “I want you to have the kind of send off that you want. I have to sort out what I’m going to do when … we have to make some arrangements, my love. I’m sorry, but we have to.” He moved his hand up and held the side of my face for moment, stroking my cheek with his thumb. It felt strange – his hand was so warm and dry, so comforting. 

My love. I’d never heard him say that before. 

**********************

The last weeks, you won’t be surprised to learn, were hideous. The pain was unbelievable, and about as much as they could do was keep increasing the doses of morphine. Craig spent most of his waking hours cleaning me, giving me hot pads to ease the constant pain, trying to get me to drink, fixing the jack in my arm with little shots of morphine. 

He moved one of the lounge chairs in next to the bed, and sometimes spent the whole night in there with me, sponging me down, giving me a little morphine, or sometimes just talking to me until I went back under. I never felt like I slept in that time, it was more like passing out, submerging in to some drug induced tide. 

My father came to visit twice, concerned, polite, dismissive of Craig. 

“I’ll get you a proper nurse,” he said the second time he came, watching as Craig sat me up on the pillows. I mean, he said that in front of him. Craig said nothing; I would have spat at him if I’d had the energy. 

“I’ve got a proper nurse,” is all I said. Anyway, now you know why I don’t get along with my father. 

“Sorry about that,” I said to Craig after my father had left. 

He laughed. “Didn’t bother me,” he said. “Don’t let it bother you either. You know what he’s like. He didn’t mean to sound rude. He meant well.” 

We were finishing dinner, if you could call it that –  I was having more bloody rice and milk, Craig was having toasted sandwiches. He spent more time feeding me than himself. 

“No he didn’t,” I panted. I was in pain, and I blame my father that particular bout. 

Craig leant over me with one of towels. “Calm down,” he said, gently. “I’ve just spent ten minutes getting that rice into you, and I don’t want to see it again.” 

Almost on cue I threw the lot of it up. 

“You are such a contrary queen”, he smiled at me, cleaning me up once more. 

Occasionally Craig went to see his doctor.  He never spoke about it, whether he was still in pain, if his knee might go back to normal. I asked a couple of times, but he’d clam right up. He had no intention of discussing it with me. 

“I’m fine,” is all he’d say. 

As for work, what he was going to do, well, I wouldn’t find out until later. But he knew – he was already being considered for another job.

*************************

One morning, only days before I died, he was giving me a sponge bath, wiping my face with a damp warm cloth, and I noticed how tired and drawn he was. He’d lost a lot of weight. 

“Sorry,” I said, barely able to get the word out. 

“You don’t have to be. I want to be here.” 

“No, I don’t mean that – I mean I’m sorry about the break up and what happened.”

He lightly sponged my arms, and then gently drew the cloth across my scarred and sore chest. 

“Don’t be. I’m over it.” 

“I can’t die unless I know you forgive me,” I said in my camp voice. He laughed, still sponging me down, thinking how he’d say it.

“You know, it’s funny, there’s no word for it, is there, when a person asks for forgiveness and you never didn’t forgive them,” he said. 

“What?” I had no idea what he meant. 

“Well, you ask if I forgive you, but you didn’t do anything that meant you were in need of my forgiveness. I understood, and in any case I behaved just as badly. I should have told you about Luke when you asked. I really regret that I wasn’t more honest with you.” 

Beautiful heart. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I was really curious. 

Craig laughed gently again. “I thought you’d go around to the station and confront him.” 

“Well, I would have, little bastard, moving in on my territory. I would have scratched his eyes out.” And we both laughed. I watched him gently cleaning me up, unfolding clean pyjamas then stopping to take my hand. 

“I had a great time with you. Some of the happiest times of my life. And I won’t forget them, and I won’t forget you, either.” 

I had to look away or I would have started crying again. But I had to say it, I didn’t want him to think I wasn’t grateful for staying with me. I had to tell him. I took a painful breath and squeezed his hand best I could. 

“And I’m sorry you have to do this too. And I’m sorry I won’t ever be able to show you how much I appreciate it.” 

He stopped and looked at me with a grave, tender face if you can imagine that. “I want to be here. It means a lot to me to be here with you.” Then his face lightened a little. “Anyway, you know what a control freak I am. I wouldn’t trust anyone else to do it properly.” 

I laughed a little, then realised that I was laughing for one of the last times in my life. I was going to die soon. 

“I’m frightened,” I told him as he reached for the dry towel.

“Frightened of what, my love?” he said, stopping for minute, holding my wet arm out towards him. 

“Frightened of dying,” I said, tears in my voice. And I was, utterly terrified. He looked at me with so much understanding in his face. That beautiful heart. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said softly, dabbing the dampness from my skin. “Might be great! You know, good restaurants, lots of gorgeous men, summer all the time – you might like being dead better than being alive!”  

But I was still terrified. “What if it isn’t? What if I don’t know anyone? Or worse still, what if there’s nothing?” 

He leant me forward to button the pyjama shirt around me, gently and confidentially, knowing that sharp movement or even touch could trigger excruciating pain. 

“What if you don’t know anyone?” He smiled at me, holding the fabric away from my skin as he fastened it. “Well, you’re one of the most outgoing men I ever met. If you don’t know anyone you soon will. And if there’s nothing, well, what are worried about?” 

I looked at him, tired and sad, still smiling at me, patient till the end. 

“You think I’m outgoing?”

“Yeah!” he said, settling me down against the wall of pillows he made for me to lean on. “That’s the second thing that attracted to me to you when I met you that day at lunch.” And he waited for the inevitable question, smoothing my scraps of hair back, fixing the collar on the shirt. 

“Okay - what was the first?” 

“I thought you were gorgeous.” He said it so sincerely it made me miss him already, and the tears came again. 

“You and your bloody hand towels,” I cursed as he wiped my face. He must have carried half a dozen with him all the time. 

Then he fixed my dose, and settled the covers over me. 

“I have to go out,” he told me a bit later. “I’ll only be a couple of hours, Steph said she’d drop in on her way to work, sit with you until I come back. She’s only a few minutes away. Okay?” 

I knew where he was going, and I knew how hard it was for him. 

“Craig?” I croaked at him. 

He took a couple of steps towards the bed, face inclined to me. “Yeah?”

“Can I have a pink coffin?” 

He laughed, but didn’t answer. 

**********************

By the last days I was actually looking forward to dying. I pretty much think that people with terminal illnesses end up dying from exhaustion as much as anything, it’s so hard. The pain, worrying about the uncertainty of death itself. 

I was in hospital again; no one had said anything but I think they were just waiting for me to die there. 

Craig, as he said he would, waited with me. He simply didn’t go home. 

“I hate it here,” I told him late one afternoon. I had thirty eight hours to go. 

“I know it’s hard for you,” he said softly. 

“No, no, that’s not what I mean.” It was exhausting, these days, even speaking. “I don’t want to die here. Not in a hospital.  I want to die at home, in my own bed.” 

He held my hand up to his face for a while, and then I guess I must have gone back under the drugs again, because when I woke up, I was being wheeled into my flat. 

Back home for the last time.

Craig spoke with the ambulance officers for a few minutes – it sounded to me as if he knew one of them – and then he came and sat next to me on the big chair.  

I had thirty four hours left. 

I’d like to say that in that time I had some fabulous realisation of the meaning of life, or Craig and I worked out all the solutions to his problems, but the truth is far more depressing. I was in agony, and spent most of the time thrashing around, waiting to die. Death throes, real ones. 

*******************

It was a Wednesday morning, early July. One of the last things I saw with my eyes was the sunny day outside, and Craig lying in the chair, dishevelled, unshaven and wide awake, looking at me. 

“Morning,” he said to me in a husky voice. I could barely hear or see him, but I could feel his hand on mine, and, funny thing, I was aware of the size of him, right alongside me. He must have had the chair pushed up close. 

“I’m tired,” I whispered to him. 

He nodded, keeping his distance because I was agitated, aching and sore, but he never left my side. For some reason it made me think of the time he came to have coffee with me at work, just to let me know he was serious. 

“Remember the coffee, when you came to work and we went to Neros?” I said as clearly as I could. 

He smiled and nodded, and leaned his head a touch towards me. “I had it so bad for you,” he said wistfully. 

“We had some fun, didn’t we,” I barely said. 

He nodded, and I couldn’t see it yet, but he had tears on his face. 

And then I went under again, but this time it felt faster, heavier, as if I was literally losing my grip on my body and my flat and everything I knew and loved. I tried to hold on to it, the way you grab for something when you fall, but this seemed to make me fall faster. 

Then it all started whizzing past me in an incredible charge of colours and temperatures and lights and darkness and sounds and scents, countless faces and voices I’d known and heard, Craig, countless men I’d had, the offices I had worked in, my parents, my beautiful mother, my sisters, my first bike, a hamster I had as a kid, the dormitory at school, coloured pencils in my school bag, my clothes, the beach, the countryside – everything I’d loved in my life in a huge blurred palette that spun way past me until all the colours mixed together to become a blinding white light that burst with me in the centre and then I was free, I was laughing and free and standing at the window of my bedroom staring out on to the world that is so magnificent, so incredibly colourful and detailed and glorious. 

That was it. No pain, no fear, nothing but a fantastic roller coaster right through my whole life and then the wonderful realisation that I hadn’t died at all – I was still here, large as life – only my body had died. 

And from the window I could see people, living people walking in the streets. The postman, some schoolkids, a mother with a baby, and, to my amazement, all of them had these huge shining lights in the top left side of their chests. The children had little pink lights, the mother had a deep emerald light, the postman had a more purple light. The baby had a tiny bright silver star, like a fairy light. The lights were all so clear, so bright. 

Craig, I said loud and healthy, Craig you have to see this, come and see these people’s hearts, and I turned around to see him sitting hunched over next to my shell, holding my hand and sobbing, then wearily slumping back in the chair with an arm over his face. He waited for a few minutes, and then stood up, leaning over to pull the covers up over my face.

That’s when I saw the glorious deep cherry coloured light in his chest, dazzling and pure, filled with images of a coastline, his family, his police uniform, the sun; all kinds of bits of pieces, some people I knew, some I didn’t, even a hazy image of Luke: all the things he loves, all suspended in the most intrinsic goodness. 

It was just like I said all along. He really does have the most beautiful heart. 

 

 

 

A Crack in the Teacup

by Baxter

 

##  Fandom: The Bill

Pairing: Craig/Luke 

Disclaimer: The characters are not mine, and no one, damn them, is giving me any money for this. The story borrows bits from the The Bill (which is not mine either, ergo no money) and the rest is made up. 

Category: Some gore, a healthy amount of swearing (in the good way) and a smattering of tasteful filth. 

 

Chapter Six

 

Well, you’d think it would be awful, being dead, but I’m here to tell you that it is very damned interesting indeed. 

Forget everything you’ve heard about heaven and hell and angel’s wings – you don’t budge, for three weeks. You hang around here, free to go where you please. You can watch people in the shower, you can see movies, you can take a flight to Bermuda – whatever you want. 

Most people hang around where they know. You can’t see us, but we can see you. 

But you only have three weeks. That’s the first thing I learnt. Three weeks.

You learn lots of things when you die. Seeing people’s heart is the first amazing revelation. We’ve all got one, not just the thick wad of muscle in our chest that oversees circulation, but the very essence of what we love and who we are and what we do. It lights us up, and it holds everything. 

And we get the opportunity to do a few favours. Not major ones, mind, so don’t go thinking that Auntie Pam’s going to lead you to a stash of hidden rubies when she pops her clogs.  But we can do small things that will actually change the path of your life. We can only do them for the better, too, so you don’t have to worry about someone taking revenge on you. 

But we can only do those favours for things you want. And we can tell what you want when we look into your heart. 

And everything, every tiny piece of the world, looks a thousand times better. You can see the world as it actually is -the magnificent tiny details that are invisible when you are busy being alive. You see the edge of each petal of each flower on a tiny scrappy plant growing from under a half worm-eaten fence. You see the thousands of shades of white and cream and pink and green in that tiny plant. You can see the dozens of tiny insects milling around it, their wings, their wisps of legs. You see the hives of activity in the small patch of soil, the pale tendrils of roots.  You can smell the oxygen oozing from the pores of the leaves of the plant, you can smell the countless minerals in the soil. 

If a dead person walks through your kitchen when you’re cooking they can smell every ingredient, every scrap of yeast, every grain of salt, every drop of water, every granule of sugar, all mixing and combining in a complex symphony of flavours. 

As I stood by my bedroom window I could smell Craig, the scent from his cotton shirt, the peculiar heady scent of his thick hair, the rich musky oil from the thousands of tiny glands in his arm that is still flung over his head. I can smell my old shell, an offensive cocktail of opiates, white soap, sweat and freshly decaying flesh. 

Oh, go have a shower, Taffy, I say to Craig, and to my great surprise he gets up, slowly and deliberately, not turning to look at my body, and walks to the bathroom. 

That’s the best thing about being dead - we have the power of suggestion. All we have to do is speak to your heart and we can get you thinking.  (You might want to remember that next time an unexpected thought pops into your head. You never know who’s around.) 

Craig stands under the water for a long time, his head hanging as he tries to wash the grief and sadness away. His heart is so full. Craig’s heart was the first I saw clearly, and I still think it was the loveliest of all the hearts I saw. (Maybe I’m biased.) 

Anyway, I’m standing in the bathroom, looking into that deep cherry coloured glow in his chest. 

It’s difficult to say what is the most important thing there. His parents are very clearly defined – I can see now that his fight with them caused him far more grief than he let on. His police uniform is clear and pulsing, really hurting him, he can’t let that go. Luke’s there too, but he seems sort of hazy, I can’t really see him clearly, and he’s tucked up the back of the big heart, so it appears Craig is getting over Twinkie. 

Around the periphery of the lovely Gilmore heart are all kinds of little pleasures he has, little things he loves and enjoys. It’s a like a car boot sale in there, all these varied unrelated objects scattered everywhere. There are seahorses, (can you imagine! Seahorses!) running shoes, a rugby ball and jersey, spy novels, roast lamb, bottles of wine, a coast line, the scents of fresh flowers, trees, trifle (that cracked me up – he really does love trifle) bottles of scented oils, all kinds of men (bloody tart!) freshly washed clothing, babies (I had no idea), some people I don’t know, the daily paper, Dime bars (I didn’t know about them either!), a generic looking house (he always wanted to buy a house), Van Morrison’s Astral Weeks (he used to play it all the time – drove me mad), sunshine, pots of tea, pints of beer, hot baths, butterflies, (poof!) hot scones, an old woman who I guess is his grandmother (I think they’re both dead), streets in Paris and the bay down in Swansea. (He used to play there when he was growing up; he spoke about it often.)

And I can see what occupies him at the moment. His heart is heavy with me as he is remembers the first time he met me, how shy he was of me, how badly he wanted to talk and engage me, and how scared he was to do that. 

I understand then, as I watch him stepping sodden out of the shower with his heart glowing, that he’s as frail as any of us. 

After he’s dressed, he calls the doctor and the undertaker. He sits with my shell holding my cool hand until they arrive, his eyes damp and pitifully sad. He’s resigned and formal when they arrive, wordlessly signing some forms and watching as they carry the tatty old coat I lived in away. 

I watch him make a dozen telephone calls, all calm and perfectly courteous, first my father, then my sisters, then my friends, then the paper to lodge my funeral notice. 

After he’s spoken to all these people he wanders the flat, seemingly lost. I decide to try that power of suggestion thing again. 

How about a cup of coffee, Gilmore? I say to him. And to my delight he wanders into the kitchen and makes one! (Mental note: Before the three weeks is up, take him shopping for some new shirts.) 

He sits at the table, his legs stretched out before him, staring at his sore knee.  It starts to fill his heart; I see his police uniform again, and his Sergeant’s stripes, and everything else in heart goes grey. 

Come on, I say to him, you’ve got your whole life ahead of you. What are your plans for today? 

His face grows serious, and I see lots of vague images pop up around the police uniform – groceries, some woman at a desk, signing forms, and a strange empty flat. 

Then he drains his coffee, stands up slowly and reminds me how truly organised and methodical he really is. 

******************

Craig’s sorted it all out, what he’d do when I die. He’s already got himself a new flat – he put the bond down two weeks ago – and I’m with him while he signs the lease. 

The real estate is a troubled, overworked woman called Ros. I see in her heart (a mauve coloured heart, has Ros) that she has three children and still misses her husband, who appears to have married someone else. She also rides horses. 

Flirt with her, Taffy, I tell him, her self-esteem is really low. Craig doesn’t go that far – I don’t think he could flirt with a woman if his life depended on it – but he does praise her effusively for all her hard work in finding him the right flat. Her heart seems to puff up when he thanks her, and we leave her beaming at her desk. 

Then Craig goes to Scotland Yard, and meets with a stern thickset woman who runs human resources. (I look in her copper-coloured heart and see she has two beagles at home, and she really enjoys protein shakes. She also plays the piano.) 

Apparently she has met with Craig a couple of times before.  She is charged with the responsibility of finding him a new job. She seems to have found him one, and Craig, resigned and monosyllabic, has already accepted it. He’s just here signing the final papers. He gets a pension, and a fairly generous payout. It makes no difference to him; his heart goes a sour crimson colour.  I can see the police uniform once more throbbing in amongst the things he loves.  But they don’t discuss the actual job, so I’m still in the dark about where Gilmore will be working.  She said she’d be in contact. 

Then on the way home he stops and gets some groceries, and he takes them around to his new flat, about a mile from where we were living. It’s rather nice – it has a little garden! He drops the groceries there, and stares at his new kitchen, cluttered with boxes and half wrapped china. 

This is really lovely, I tell him. You’ll be so happy here. And he smiles wanly to himself, thinking about what he might do to get the place looking more cheerful. 

Flowers help, I tell him helpfully.  I look at his heart and see big bunches of poppies.  Gilmore, I say, you’re a hopeless bloody poof, and he smiles for the first time in ages. He’s thinking of the times we used to muck around together, talking in our camp voices. 

Stop living in the past, Taffy, I chide. Get moving. 

He goes back to our place, and takes his car and drives to his old flat. Mr Methodical has packed up some stuff already and he puts this in his car, along the rest of his clothes from his wardrobe, and the rest of his shoes, and his cds. 

He makes several of these little trips over the next few days. By the time I’ve been cremated Craig is ensconced in his new flat, and my horrible family are picking over the bones of my belongings in my flat like the vultures they are. 

I am surprised and delighted to learn that he has been organising himself like this for weeks without me knowing. Planning his own life but keeping it from me because I had so little life left. 

One of the last things Craig takes from his flat is his phone. He listens to the voice mail – there are twenty two messages – but doesn’t take any messages down. He just listens to them – his mother called six times, increasingly worried for him, a little apologetic, his brother called twice, the Police Union people called a few times, the surgeon called once, a few people from work called and left messages hoping he’d be okay and back soon, and there were two calls from the bank. 

And there were three from Gina. The first one was about March, and just asked Craig to call her. 

The second one was April, a little more insistent, saying she wanted to talk to him about Luke. Craig’s heart flashed with pale green. 

The third message from her was long. Craig played it three times, a whole palette of colours swirling through his heart.  It was dated about three weeks ago, and gave brief details of Luke – the lost baby, the spoiled marriage, the shooting incidence. She almost begs Craig to call her. 

He deleted all the messages, unplugged the phone and threw it in the car with everything else. 

On the way to his new flat he dropped off the keys to the old place at the real estate agent, and they gave him his bond back in cash. A beggar stopped him down as he walked back to his car, and Craig gave him twenty quid without a word. 

Beautiful heart. 

**********************

My funeral wasn’t a bad one; Craig did a nice job with that.  My father was sad, my sisters were wistful, my stepmother was completely bored. Steph and Richard and Lisa the Lez and Eddie the Het all wept openly, a few men I hadn’t seen in years turned up and they wept too. 

I spent a bit of time watching my father, looking closely at his heart. For a while it was full of work details – computers and large buildings and meetings – then all of a sudden I can see him, very young, holding a baby. I can see myself in my father’s arms, and my beautiful mother next to him, smiling. The whole image is shrouded with dark blue.  My father finally misses me. 

I hate that I had to wait until I died to see that. 

Craig sat on the friends’ side, near Richard, and just stared at my coffin the whole time. Craig misses me, I can see it in his heart, stark and bleak faced, not listening to the vicar (who, I’m surprised to see, has a fuschia coloured heart, filled with stamps and stamp collecting albums). 

And I miss Craig. 

But I’m not far, and I’m not going anywhere yet. So I’m going to spend my next three weeks with him. 

Gilmore, I decide at my funeral, is going to be my project. 

*********************

Well, it was a nice theory, thinking that I might be able to ease Gilmore into the next phase of his life. 

I’m sitting at the table with him in his new flat, running out of ideas to keep him in the land of the living. He hasn’t been out for three days, choosing instead to potter (or limp) around the house, unpacking his stuff and eating little more than toast and apples. 

Good thing I don’t need any sleep, because it’s a full time job, keeping Gilmore too busy to be sad. 

So far I’ve had him planting shrubs, sorting out all his belongings, chucking stuff out (not Astral Weeks – I tried but he wouldn’t hear me), and I’ve tried to get him to call people. I thought it might be good if he caught up with some friends, got out a bit more.  He thought about it, but he hasn’t even plugged his phone in yet, nor has he replaced his stolen mobile. 

I helped him set up his computer (read the manual, Taffy), and got him looking on the net for new phones. Then I tried again to get him to throw out Astral Weeks, but instead he laid on his couch and played it three times in a row. 

I went next door and watched his neighbour’s fish until he’d finished. 

I’ve kept him busy, but he’s not settling. He’s depressed, something is weighing him down, yet I can’t see it in his heart, only a massive gap that started on the night of my funeral. At first it was small, a little space that I thought just meant he was missing me, but it just keeps growing. It is pitch black. 

Oh, what’s the matter, I say to him now as he idly dunks his spoon in his coffee cup. What grieves you, Taffy? 

His puts his spoon down and looks across the table, and as he thinks I can see that growing space is turning olive–grey, the colour of loneliness.  A huge horrible pang of loneliness is ailing my ex who wants nothing more than to share this big crimson heart with someone. There’s so much love in there, and it’s all displaced. 

If I don’t think of something soon it will turn sour and bitter and ruin him for life. 

And I’ve only got about fifteen days left.

Come on Taffy, I say to him over the table. Let’s go for a walk. Let’s go and mingle. Let’s see if we can’t find you a nice boy to plug the gap until the love of your life comes along. 

He sighs, and wearily stands up, trying to stretch his sore leg. You’ll feel better when you’re walking, I promise him, but he doesn’t look convinced. 

*************************

We’re walking down to the High Street together.  I’m trying to get him interested in things but I keep getting distracted by all the glorious things around us, and then have to chase him up. 

Look Craig, look at that little dog! I point to a puppy for him, and for a moment he half smiles at a baby Pomeranian skipping along on a leash, its tiny little nails clipping along the footpath. That minuscule sound is so beautiful, and when I listen, I can gradually hear the sound of tiny little dogs all over England skipping down hallways and paths and meadows, the music of their little feet hitting the ground.  So many little dogs making their way somewhere. 

And when I look up, Craig’s gone again, miles ahead of me. 

Look, I say, stopping at a delicatessen, food! You love food. You love cooking. And he stops for a minute, looking at French cheeses and imported spices stacked in the window, but the thought of cooking reminds him of me, and he grows sadder and lonelier. I’m reeling as the hundreds of extraordinary scents hit me – the milk still souring in the cheeses, the salts in the cured meats, the yeast in the breads – so it takes me a few seconds to remember what I’m trying to do. 

Craig. Make Craig happy. Right. 

Okay, I tell him, enough of the food. Let’s keep walking.  

We stop at a shoe shop, and I see trainers. Remember how you loved running, I tell him, remember how happy it made you? You can still do that, you know. That exhilaration and pleasure is waiting all around you, waiting for you to catch it. He stares at the runners for a long time and then in his heart I see his crushed knee, then I can see the physical pain it brings him still. He’d love to go for a run, he’d even make do with a jog, but it won’t for months yet, if ever. The thought makes him sadder, and reminds him that he’ll never be a copper again. 

This is not working. 

Then we walk past a café, and I see a cook (with a beautiful bright cobalt heart, full of fruits and vegetables and doughnuts) is the kitchen making a humming bird cake. The aromas of cooking cinnamon and honey, coupled with the butter and sugar, are staggering. 

Craig, I say excitedly.  In here! Come get a cup of coffee! Come and sit down and eat cake! 

He stops outside and looks in the window. He can smell the cake too, his face lifts as he tries to discern what kind of cake he can smell. It’s enough to entice him; he walks in, picks up a copy of the local gay paper and starts reading in the corner. 

Bugger the bloody local poof news, I tell him, go to the personals. I know you love reading the personals. (He really does. I used to tease him about this a lot; he used to act in indignant but he never denied it. Secretly I always thought he liked the ads because he was so well behaved himself  - it was a bit of relief for him to read of the kinds of depraved mischief others invite in to their lives.) 

Anyway, his heart grows lighter, quite literally, when he reads the pleading ads from young men seeking older straight acting men, GSOH, your place or mine. He reads them all, interested, his mind ticking over. 

Why don’t you call, Craig, I ask him. Give one those eager young bucks a call. A little of warmth and comfort until your prince comes along could be just what the doctor ordered.  

He thinks about this, his eyebrows knitting, lines across his straight clear forehead. He’s curious, but he won’t do it. 

Well, let’s try it another way, Taffy. Why don’t you place you own ad? Think about it, what kind of boy would you advertise for? Who’s your perfect man? 

And suddenly, in his heart, I see dozens of images of Luke, as if they were there all the time but hidden in the dark parts, hidden underneath all the other the other things, shoved away. Those great big dark gaps in his heart are Luke, dozens of memories Craig has of him: Luke smiling at him, Luke angry with him, Luke gasping at him in a motel room. 

I had no idea he loved that boy so much. 

Luke’s been in his heart for months and Craig’s been ignoring it.  But that’s what he wants - Luke’s the reason all that love and loneliness is stewing in that beautiful heart. 

Well, Taffy, if that’s who you want, we may as well start trying to get it. He can’t be far, you just have to go and find him. As I say this to him his sad face softens a little and the gap in his heart starts to turn the colour of hope (which, incidentally, is a lovely shimmering pale green). I can see him thinking that maybe Luke still is a possibility. 

Where does Luke live? I ask him. Where can we find him? Give me a clue and I’ll go looking for him for you. If you love him, Craig, you may as well try and find him. If he means this much to you, you may as well try one last time. He thinks about this, my Gilmore, and a sort of determination comes over his face as he realises that Luke is who he really wants, and that he has nothing to lose in trying one more time. 

After all, a lot can happen in six months. 

 

 

A Crack in the Teacup

by Baxter

 

##  Fandom: The Bill

Pairing: Craig/Luke 

Disclaimer: The characters are not mine, and no one, damn them, is giving me any money for this. The story borrows bits from the The Bill (which is not mine either, ergo no money) and the rest is made up. 

Category: Some gore, a healthy amount of swearing (in the good way) and a smattering of tasteful filth. 

 

Chapter Seven

 

Having left the morose Gilmore dreaming of Luke and picking at hummingbird cake in a café, I’ve wandered down to Sun Hill Police station to find Luke’s ex- wife. I figure it will be easy - all I’ll have to do is find the right blonde and have a quick peek at her heart to see where Luke might be. Then I’ll grab Twinkie and haul him over to Gilmore. 

Simple.

The WPC’s locker room seemed as good as place to start as any. It’s a large room, filled with a never ending parade of female police officers conducting serious conversations in their underwear, squirting themselves with powdery deodorants and bitching about other women who have just left the room.  I’m  overwhelmed by a crushing need to run around, waving my arms above my head, screeching GIRL GERMS as loud as I want. 

It is very tempting. 

No sign of Mrs Ashton. Thus far I’ve had one brunette, a red head, a bottle blonde with an Indian man clearly marked in her heart, one black woman and  - for a quick second – Gina sticking her head in asking for Kerry. Girl germs, I squeal at the Inspector as she peers in, but it doesn’t seem to affect her. 

The shift is ending, a number of women are now wondering in and out. The air grows heavy with the unfamiliar alkaline scent of women: the aldehydes of their perfumes souring on their skins, the odour of their sweat and oil trapped in their polyester-cotton blend shirts. They strip off their uniforms, pull their chequered neck ties, uncoil their tightly wound hair with complete abandon, chattering like a flock of budgies as I look at the mosaic of coloured hearts around me. They’re filled with recent work incidents, tempered by bags of knitting, pets, families, cars, men, books, time sheets, babies and exhaustion. One of them has a canary; another seems to have a sick father. 

Still no Mrs Ashton. I’m considering the possible merits of hanging around the PCs locker room when a page three bombshell walks in, tugging pins from her bright hair, smiling at a couple of others as they greet her by name. Kerry. A skinny, bright-eyed little thing not unlike a dormouse, who is wearing a slightly different uniform, follows her. The others call her Robbie. 

As Kerry opens her locker I try to track Luke in her heart, but am temporarily distracted. Why, I ask her, does anyone who’s not a lap dancer need to keep pink frosted nail polish in her locker?  

I’m pondering this mystery of women when the black WPC comes back and tells Kerry that Gina wants to see her. Kerry’s heart, which is a sort of deep crème brulee colour, covers with little itchy pits of irritation. It makes me shudder. 

Just as Kerry is about to close the locker she looks at the nail polish and tosses it in her bag. 

“Don’t know why I keep that here,” she says to the dormouse with a self-deprecating smile. “I never use it.” 

Kerry’s creamy heart is an interesting one. It is dominated by a rather mean looking man with all the warmth and humour of a wrought iron gate, a beady eyed git with cruel straight eyebrows. Around him there are pink dresses, body lotions, apples, another nicer looking older man who I guess to be her father, her police uniform, fruit & nut chocolate, cocktails, hockey sticks, the gym, and, quite clearly in one corner, a rather dated image of a nice looking woman who is edged with black. I wonder briefly, as I follow Kerry out of the locker room, if she has also lost her mother. 

The thing that surprises me most about her heart is not what is in there, but who isn’t. I couldn’t see Luke at all. 

“You wanted to see me, Ma’am?” Kerry asks stiffly as she taps her knuckle against Gina’s door. 

The Inspector looks up and briskly motions Kerry to come in side. 

Girl germs! I squeal at Gina again, but still nothing happens. 

Gina is clearly not a big one for formalities. “I wanted to ask how Luke’s going on,” she asks straight away. 

Kerry shrugs her brown shoulders. “He’s pretty quiet,” she says, and finally I can see a few small images of Luke in her heart. He’s in uniform. 

“Has he moved out yet?” Gina is staring at her hard. 

“He’s at his mother’s place,” Kerry says shortly. Her heart prickles again; it appears she wasn’t keen to tell Gina this. 

Gina nods. “Give me her address, will you?” 

Kerry’s creme brulee heart flashes with scarlet, but there’s icy white – the shade of fear – around the edge. She’s scared of Gina.

“Seventeen Abbots Gardens,” she tells her reluctantly. 

Gina writes this down.  She looks up at Kerry, assessing whether to draw her into further conversation, but can see straight away that there’s no point. 

“Thank you constable,” she says sharply, and Kerry turns on her heel and leaves, only saying, “Ma’am” as she walks out the door. Her heart now has streaks of ochre, the feeling of stupidity. Clearly Gina reminds her of things she’s rather not remember. 

I think I’ve had my fill of the former Mrs Ashton for this lifetime, so I hang around Gina for a bit, checking to see what she might do next. I could get a lift if she’s going to drop in on Twinkie. 

But no, she goes back to her paper work, her face grim with determination. Her heart is pale pink, the colour of japonica camellias. It is the first heart I’ve seen that has the dominant images at the back – there’s a tall older black man up there in a uniform, some kids who I guess are his, and her inspector’s badge is there too. Around the front is an ashtray, bottles of whisky, various coppers, tapestry cushions, Nancy Mitford books, bunches of flowers, her kitchen, old woollen blankets, the Elgin Marbles and other things in the British Museum, an old sandy coloured dog and Wedgwood jasper ware. 

She is concentrating on her work, so I decide to get her thinking about Craig. She could use the diversion. 

“Gilmore’s pretty damned upset with you,” I tell her, “and I don’t blame him. You treated him very badly. You were supposed to be his friend. ” I’m about to go on, but an image of Craig flashes strongly in her heart and she throws her pen down, squeezing her eyes shut. Her heart immediately streaks with shades of avocado green, the colour of remorse.  She looks up at the ceiling, and I feel true pity for her when I see the contrition on her face. 

But there’s not much I can do at the moment – I have to get to Twinkie’s. Maybe later. 

But before I go, I have one more try. 

Girl germs! I squeal at Gina again, and this time she shudders from the feeling of someone walking on her grave. 

So now you know. Next time you feel like someone has walked on your grave, it’s just one of us, having a laugh. 

**************************

****

I’m sitting on the foot of Luke Ashton’s bed. He’s been lying there for days in a pair of fetid track suit pants, staring at the ceiling. He hasn’t shaved or eaten anything apart from a small triangle of ageing rockmelon he found in the fridge at lunchtime yesterday. 

Luke’s heart. What a mess. It should be a marvellous salmon-orange colour, almost like coral, but at the moment it has a horrible undercurrent of grey that is getting murkier by the minute. 

 There are lots of curious things in the Ashton heart. Occasionally I see these large crowds of Africans - refugees, troubled people, all clamouring for his attention, noisy and angry. Kerry’s there, staring at him with large watery eyes and heavy lips, but she seems to fade even as I watch. 

There are some friends, some other coppers, his mother, a few odd bits and pieces like bicycles, cds, flamingoes (go figure), a grandmother looking type, lasagne, the gym (glad to see he had at least one thing in common with his wife), a hamster (Gilmore would love that – a lover with a pet hamster) and a strange mix of a London landscape and rusty coloured African plains. 

But these things are scattered around the ragged edges. It is the centre of it that interests (and surprises) me the most, the parts where I can see Craig clearly. These images are sharp, but are mixed with Luke’s police uniform, all spattered in blood. The blood splatters recur like raindrops and from time to time they seem to rise to the surface, as if he can’t control the thought. When this happen he winces and grimaces, as if in physical pain.

No doubt about it, it’s growing, the Craig component of his heart - as Kerry fades, Craig becomes more and more defined.  But the more Craig fills his heart, the deeper and faster the blood splashes become. 

Every now and then a person who I guess is Luke’s mother comes to his bedroom door. She is very worried about him, but totally unsure what she should do. She wishes he would eat something. 

Come on Twinkie, I say to him, you’re upsetting your mother. What would you like to eat? What foods do you like? 

Unfortunately, the thought of food seems to make him queasy. Okay, I say nicely, we don’t have to eat. What would make you get up? Think hard, Twinkie, I say to his heart, would you make you get up? 

And, not surprisingly, the images of Craig become vivid and bright. For a few seconds Twinkie looks like he’s going to smile, but instead his dull hazel eyes brim and seep. 

Well, I’m going to have to be more proactive here. 

Luke, I say, Craig still loves you. You know that. You know in your heart he does. You know that. Go and find him. Go and find him. 

Ashton’s face grows stern with concentration. Suddenly his heart is literally jammed with Craig, and I can see the grey pools there lightening to that hopeful shimmering green. 

Well, Twinkie, sitting around here isn’t going to help anyone. Get off your bloody bed and go and see him! I say as loudly as I can. Honestly, I’d shake him if I were still alive. Move, Twinkie! It’s not going to happen if you lie here staring at the light bulb! Get up! GET UP AND GO FIND HIM! 

And – alle-bloody-lujah – Twinkie starts to move. He sits up, dishevelled and curiously attractive, scratching that rather excellent tummy, wondering where his shoes are. Do I have to dress you? I say impatiently. 

Twinkie’s not going to make the cover of GQ in the clothes he chooses, but it will do to get him from here to Craig. He leaves the house in a hurry, stopping only to kiss his bewildered mother goodbye, and he literally pounds down the stairs. I run along beside him to keep his spirits up. He has a fair distance to cover, but he’s healthy and strong and I don’t think he even notices how fast he is running. 

We’re having a great time, Twinkie and I, rushing through Sun Hill, across the highway, over through the park, through to the cul-de-sac – and then I remember. 

Craig’s moved. 

Damn.  This is not going to be as easy I hoped.

Twinkie is steaming ahead, literally flying up to Craig’s old place, and then he stops dead in his tracks when he sees the house is obviously unoccupied, and has been for a while. I see Twinkie’s face drop and the green lights in his heart sag to a miserable grey again. 

No, no, Luke, it’s fine, don’t worry, I say, he’s just moved. He hasn’t left the town. He’s not far away. 

And that’s all I can do. Twinkie’s no psychic, so I can’t actually give him Craig’s address. I can’t do anything except assure him that the big crimson Gilmore heart is still waiting for him. 

But this time, Luke doesn’t hear me. His heart is heavy with images of Craig. The grey is patched with indigo, the colour of longing and loss, and the splashes of blood become heavier.

He walks home defeated and bleak.

Needless to say, Twinkie is heading back to his bed to reassess his ceiling. His mother has made him lasagne and chips – a very dish usually held in high regard in Twinkie’s heart – but not tonight. Twinkie dabs the chips in the sauce of the lasagne half-heartedly, and manages to squeeze down five chips and two forkfuls of the pasta before he gives up. 

Oh, come on, I say gently, you can do better than that. It’s not working though; Twinkie waits until his mother isn’t looking and scrapes his plate into the bin. He then sneaks back into his bedroom, tears streaming down his face. 

Cheer up Luke, I say brightly, I’ll get Gilmore to come to you. Luke rolls around and faces the wall, his shoulders heaving. 

I leave Twinkie miserable on his unmade bed and go back to see Gilmore. 

I’ll be back soon Luke, I promise.

*********************

Luke’s over at his mum’s, I tell Gilmore when I get back, but Taffy’s no psychic either and all that happens is images of Luke flicker in his heart. He’s worried about Twinkie, replaying the bits of Gina’s last phone message in his mind. 

I note, as I move next to him on the couch, that Taffy’s wearing his planning face, wondering how he’ll contact Luke. He is going through people in his mind, and I see them come up in his heart one by one but I don’t recognise many of them. They’re all wearing police uniforms.

Craig, I say clearly, when you find this boy and settle down, I want you to stop thinking about work all the time and get some hobbies. Then I look into his heart and see what happens, and the bloody seahorses swim across the surface. 

If he’s going to start breeding seahorses I’m taking the first plane to New York.

All right, forget the hobbies, let’s find Luke. Who can help you, I ask. Who would have a contact for Luke? 

He starts with Gina, thinks about her for a long time, and ends up getting angry. I’ve seen Craig angry – it’s very interesting: he’s controlled, exacting but really aggressive.  His anger at Gina is turning his heart scarlet, flecked with bits of brown. (Betrayal is brown.) 

So I don’t think Gina will be helping us.

Concentrate, Taffy, I tell him. Find Luke.

Gina fades, and some constables come up. Craig goes through a number of them. There’s a young dark eyed one, who can’t be more than twenty, but Craig thinks he’s a bit thick, so he flicks through to a big beefy bloke with sandy neatly combed hair, a man in his forties perhaps. Craig ponders him for a while, but dismisses the thought all of a sudden. Then the ex-wife comes up.  His heart swirls with different colours, confusion, regret, remorse, jealousy, pity, sorrow. 

He’s trying to work out if Kerry’s still in love with Twinkie. 

You would have heard people say. “I knew it in my heart,” right? Well, don’t disregard that. When you know it in your heart, you’re probably more correct than you realise. Craig knows in his heart that any love the Twinkies had was brittle at best, although he hasn’t convinced himself yet. 

You’re right, Taffy, I tell him. The Twinkies are history. Luke’s missing you like you wouldn’t believe. Hurry up. Find someone to track him down. And Craig starts going through some more people who might be able to help him: a shaved head angry man with a surprisingly sensual mouth who makes Craig’s heart scarlet again, and then a gentle looking older man with a head of thick dark hair slicked back with what must be a bucketload of Brylcream. Craig thinks about the Brylcream man for a bit with a kind of respectful tenderness. It’s growing on him. Brylcream bloke looks like he’s the one.  

***************************

It’s rather fascinating to hear Craig talk to Brylcream man, who I learn is called Reg. There’s a phenomenal trust going both ways over the phone line, and I can sense, even here, that Reg is acting with the very best intentions. He seems to give Craig a thesis of the recent Twinkie history, and a kaleidoscope of the colours of sadness and empathy flit through Craig’s heart. 

After the call is finished, Craig flops down against the couch and ponders Twinkie more carefully. I think he has some understanding of Twinkie’s unhappiness, but not much.  He starts thinking about their stag night, remembering some things Luke whispered to him in the dark. For the first time in months, Craig smiles widely, his eyes crinkled and warm, biting his bottom lip. 

His heart literally ripples with shimmering green. 

And he knows now that Twinkie is at his mother’s house. What Gilmore doesn’t know is that Twinkie is in a very bad way, and at this stage neither of us realise that we don’t have much time. 

Right now Gilmore is remembering that he is very hungry indeed. 

Well, you haven’t really eaten properly for weeks, I say to him. You can fetch Twinkie when you’ve eaten. Eat! Make yourself some food! Make a trifle! And the images of a trifle flashes in his heart, but it reminds him of the times I used to make trifles, and he gets sad. 

(I used to make them when he least expected them. It was a running private joke we had in those lovely early days – I’d make one, he’d be appreciative and glutinous for hours, and I’d put the leftovers in the fridge. Day by day the tide in the trifle bowl would subside, but I never caught him once. Not once. I have no idea when he’d eat it, and if it wasn’t for the fact that the bowl would gradually grow empty, you’d have no idea he’d even touched it. I tried all kinds of ways to trap him – I’d slightly wrinkle the clingfilm. I’d place the bowl carefully in a specific part of the fridge, but it never worked. And when I say, “Who’s eating the trifle?” he’d pull this cute face and shrug his shoulders. It was so sweet. 

But I digress.)

Craig is in the kitchen, heating a skillet, slicing onions, running a decisive eye over the spice rack. Steak. 

Eat up, Taffy, I say approvingly. 

*********************

Once I’ve got Gilmore settled, I go back to Twinkie, only to find him on the bed still, his clothes scattered on the floor, and the duvet pulled over his head. It’s July, for God’s sake, a lovely balmy night outside. 

Mother Twinkie comes in again, sitting on his bed, trying to talk to him. He’s telling her that he’s okay, but I can see in her heart (which is a nice bright yellow, like lemon curd) that she is frantic for him. She is trying desperately to find out what is draining her son. In her heart I see flickering images of the wedding, the Twinkie wife, Luke coming home white as a sheet and soaked in someone’s else’s blood, but she can’t quite get it. 

And in Twinkie’s heart, there’s Craig, miserable in a towelling robe, a pleading look in his eyes, and Craig in a suit, bitter and black, walking away from Twinkie, and Craig in hospital as I saw him, battered and sore and exhausted. 

Tell your mum about Craig, Twinkie. Tell your Mum, I say over and over. She’s a nice woman, and I could do with her help. 

But it’s not working. Twinkie can’t hear me. Is that what happens, when real clinical depression sets in, I wonder? Do you cease to hear your own heart? 

I sit with Luke most of the evening. It’s starting to really worry me, because his heart just grows cloudier and cloudier, marked only by the recurring images of bloodstains and Craig, looking at him sad and wounded. 

The more I try to talk to Luke, the less he appears to hear. I try anyway, telling   him that it isn’t easy for any of us, coming to terms with who we are, and that he doesn’t have to get used to it overnight. Take your time with it, I tell Twinkie gently. You’ve got plenty of time. 

When this doesn’t work, I try to talk to him about Craig. He’s as patient as a herd of cows, I tell Twinkie. He’ll give you all the time and the space you need, and cook for you while he’s waiting. What’s more he won’t count the time as a loss either, Twinkie. 

But nothing happens. Twinkie dozes on and off, occasionally waking with a start at the large red droplets scatter across his heart again. In his dreams he sees Craig being shot, Craig’s blood all over his face and collar. 

*************************

Once I’m certain that he’s sleeping soundly, I leave Twinkie and walk back in the glorious warm night to see what Gilmore’s doing. 

He’s asleep, stretched across his bed, snoring into one of his four pillows. (How many pillows does a man need, I ask you?) 

Craig, I say gently, you have to go and see Luke soon. Real soon, sooner than you think. He’s trying to find you and he can’t. He thinks you hate him, and that’s the last thing he needs because he pretty much loathes himself enough for everybody. 

Gilmore stirs as I talk to him, his deep crimson heart flickering in the dark. I see images of Luke in there, wrapped up in his arms. 

I really can’t tell if this is working or not. Can he hear me while he sleeps?

Tomorrow, I tell Craig. You have to go and see Luke tomorrow.  I watch closely, and, in his sleep, my big softhearted ex pushes himself closer into a pillow and secures it to his heart with both arms. 

 

A Crack in the Teacup

by Baxter

 

##  Fandom: The Bill

Pairing: Craig/Luke 

Disclaimer: The characters are not mine, and no one, damn them, is giving me any money for this. The story borrows bits from the The Bill (which is not mine either, ergo no money) and the rest is made up. 

Category: Some gore, a healthy amount of swearing (in the good way) and a smattering of tasteful filth. 

 

Chapter Eight

 

The following morning I’m sitting at kitchen window, watching the sun rise, waiting for Gilmore to wake up. 

 

I keep myself entertained by watching the never ending palette of hearts in people walking around the suburb - I estimate I can see the colours of hearts up to about a mile away. Before it grows light, it seems stars move around the streets. 

 

They come in so many colours, our hearts. Every one is different; some shades are luminous, some are deep and rich (like Taffy’s), some are bright and sparkly (like Luke’s). 

 

I haven’t seen a black heart yet. I’m idly wondering if there is such a thing when Gilmore surfaces not long after seven o’clock, his injured leg a little stiff, his face in desperate need of a shave. 

 

Make yourself some breakfast, Taffy, I tell him. You need to get your strength back up if we’re going to get you involved with the volatile Ashton. 

 

You should see his heart spark when he looks in his fridge and remembers he has eggs. I know what’s going to happen now. 

 

There is not a person on earth who enjoys poaching eggs like Gilmore. He’s made it in to a kind of science. 

 

Craig, I say to him as he studies the eggs cooking in the shallow water, we have to get you over to Ashton. You have to go today, it’s really important.  Right on cue, images of Luke illuminate his heart. 

 

But first, you stubborn Welsh git, I say in my fiercest voice, YOU HAVE TO CALL YOUR PARENTS. And don’t scowl because you know how worried they are. You’ve made your point. Ring your mum, Taffy. 

 

Gilmore’s twisting his pretty mouth as he carefully catches his toast from the toaster. Hang on, that’s MY toaster! 

 

The toaster. Remember when I kicked your door down for that? 

 

(I only wanted it because he loved it. It’s an old one, and it has some kind of atomic spring action that sends the toast flying once it’s been cooked. Craig loves catching the toast.)

 

He smiles sadly as he thinks of me vandalising his front door, but I rein him back in. 

 

Your mother, Craig. Call your mother. And his heart fills with visions of his home in Swansea, his mother’s smile, his father’s approval. The colour is enhanced by his enormous enjoyment of the eggs. 

 

Darling, I say to Gilmore as he grinds a touch more black pepper over the runny yolks, I’m going over to check on Luke, so I need you to get ready to go and see him. You both need to talk. 

 

Little flecks of green shimmer in his heart again.

 

Don’t get too hopeful, I tell him. You’ve got a lot of work to do with him.  Poor Twinkie’s on the fast track to the mental ward, so you’re going to have to be patient. 

 

And I’m serious about your parents, Taffy. Call your parents.

 

I don’t even have to look into his heart to see how keenly he misses them. His face is stained with it. 

 

***********************

 

It’s a fabulous thing, to walk the streets during the day when you’re dead. I can hear everything – kittens purring, mothers humming to babies, vacuum cleaner nozzles hitting the furniture as someone hoovers the carpet, toddlers drawing on walls, water slopping in the sink as dishes are watched, clothes tangling amongst themselves as they slosh in the washing machine – all these mundane sounds from ordinary houses where people conduct ordinary lives. It has a musical quality to it.

 

And every now and then I run into someone whose body has also died. 

 

“Isn’t it great?” an old man says to me as I stop and look at a healthy thick jasmine vine that meanders over an ordinary white fence. The plant literally glitters with vitality, I can see the delicious scent hovering in clouds over the milky blossoms, sparked by tiny insects. 

  

“The scent,” I agree with him. We are both overpowered byt the pure scent of jasmine, and while we stop and notice it, the scent of every single jasmine flower in every single place around England engulfs us. It is glorious, and for a few moments neither of us can believe how lucky we are.

 

“Poison?” he says to me when we’ve both had our fill of England’s jasmine. 

 

I don’t know what he means. 

 

“You died of poison?” he asks again.

 

“No, cancer – why?” 

 

“I can see the colour spreading through you. See?” he says and points a bright red mass in his belly. “Tumour.” 

 

I hadn’t noticed this. You carry your death around with you. 

 

“We’ve all got it,” he says casually. “Except the suicides.” 

 

“What do they have?” 

 

“Broken hearts,” he says briefly. I want more details but suddenly he’s gone, across the road, up the street.  (We can move through your world very quickly.)

 

I think about following him, but I have to get to Twinkie’s before I lose him in the bedclothes forever. 

 

**********************

 

Craig and Luke don’t actually live so far from eachother, I ealize as I walk leisurely back to the Twinkie household.  Maybe, if I’m clever, I can get them to meet half way. But when I get to Luke’s bed, I see this is going to be difficult. 

 

Luke’s still lying in bed, under his duvet on this very warm July morning, still watching the ceiling. His heart, though, seems to be disappearing.  It’s a shapeless gelatinous mess of grey and splashes of blood; the images of Craig are distorted and vague. The blood splashes all over it continuously now – when he winces it eases for a few seconds, and then it starts all over again. 

 

Whatever’s consuming Twinkie has nearly eaten him alive in the few hours since I saw him. I can’t quite work it out. His eyes are now completely dull, his skin is pale – the person who lives in Twinkie’s body has literally been obliterated by depression.

 

What’s the matter? I ask him over and over, but there’s no response. What are you thinking? 

 

Oh God, no. Twinkie slowly takes his arms out of the covers and starts staring at his wrists. He examines them closely, and then gently traces the long blue of his vein with his index finger. 

 

Oh, no, Luke, I say loud and clear, don’t even think about it. No, Luke, there’s no solution in that. 

 

But he just doesn’t hear. His heart, what’s left of it, is completely closed.  I have to get Craig here quickly. 

 

Before I go back to get Gilmore moving, I check that Mother Twinkie is in. To my relief I find her chatting on the phone, talking to someone – her sister, maybe? – about her bad back. 

 

Mrs Ashton, I say politely (funny how courteous and respectful mothers make you, even when you’re haunting them), you can’t leave the house at all today. Luke’s going bonkers and he’s planning on hurting himself. Be a love – stay here and look after him until I can get the Sarge around to sort him out. 

 

She looks across at Luke’s room, a little alarmed. I hate to frighten her, but I’m scared myself. He needs help. 

 

“No,” Mrs Ashton says down the phone, “Luke’s still home, so I think I’ll stay in today. I want to rest to my back up before I leave next week, and besides, it’s too hot to go anywhere.” 

 

Well, that’s one less thing I have to worry about for the time being. Twinkie’s hardly going to try any self harm techniques while mum’s around. 

 

**************************

 

I walk through the High Street on the way back, just for the pleasure of smelling the foods from the green grocers and bakeries. 

 

As I linger around the summer fruits, reeling from the scent of raspberries, an old couple, nattering as they choose potatoes, catch my attention. 

 

They would both be well into their seventies, possibly even their eighties. There’s nothing exceptional about them, not to other live people. 

 

But their hearts. 

 

His is a sort of pacific blue, hers is a firetruck red, but when they move slowly across the store together I can see that every few seconds their hearts meld and both become purple. Their hearts literally mix, fill eachother with their own colours. 

 

I think seriously about following them home when a mealy-mouthed champagne coloured poodle comes tapping into the shop on a leash, leading a very attractive woman in a beautiful silk dress that hides a sagging dull corn-coloured heart. It’s full of clothes and money and possessions; despite the substantial rings she sports on her wedding finger there are no people in her heart. 

 

Her snappy little pooch stops short in front of me, growling. 

 

What’s your problem, puffball, I tease him as walk past, trying to follow the purple heart couple, and to my astonishment the little fleabag starts yapping like there’s no tomorrow. 

 

He can see me.   

 

****************************

 

Gilmore’s stretched out on his couch, talking on the phone. You’d better be talking to your mother, Taffy, I say sternly when I walk back into his flat.

 

But I don’t even have to wait for him to absorb my suggestion – I can see his heart is coated in a beautiful sheer mauve, the colour of motherly love. (You might want to look out for that when you die – it is very special.) 

 

“Well, it sounds okay,” Taffy is telling her as he wedges a cushion under his sore knee, “But I don’t have much choice, so I’ll guess I’ll just have to make the most of it.”

 

Make the most of what, precious? I have no idea what he’s talking about. 

 

“No, I have to work in the City. At Scotland Yard.” 

 

Oh, do you now? Nuts. I’ve missed him talking about his job. I still don’t know what he’s doing. 

 

“Well, not a suit,” he tells Mam, who is clearly asking if he is still in uniform, “but office clothes. I don’t know,” he smiles ruefully. “I’ve never had to wear office clothes before.” 

 

Office clothes? We have to go shirt shopping. 

 

“Not for another couple of weeks. I’ve got to go back in next week to meet with some of the people in the Department, but they gave me seven months’ leave in all, just in case something went wrong with my knee.” 

 

Great! We’re going in to the office next week. Maybe I’ll find out then. 

 

Gilmore’s listening to Mam intently, thinking carefully before he answers her. 

 

“It’s okay. It hurts a lot in the morning, but it’s okay if I keep exercising it. No, I can walk on it fine, and it’ll get stronger, but I probably won’t ever be able to run on it like I could.” He looks away, pressing his mouth tight as Mam continues. 

 

“Is he okay?” Taffy’s face becomes a little more reserved, and images of his father appear in his heart. 

 

“I know he was upset.” Craig flexes his left fist as he speaks. “But I was sick. And it wasn’t as though I’d done anything wrong.” 

 

It appears Mam agrees with him. His face becomes calmer, his hand relaxes; the mauve covers his heart again. 

 

“I haven’t seen him since I was in hospital,” Craig says quietly. “I do know he split up with his wife.”  Luke Ashton again. Is there anyone in London not talking about him? 

 

“Had nothing to do with me,” Craig says, somewhat defensive. His mouth grows tight again, and he shifts to sit up. “Look, I’ll talk to you about it when I see you.” 

 

Mam rather likes the idea of this. (Craig’s mother is a bit of a fan of a good natter.) She says something that makes him smile and the rich landscapes of the hill and coasts of Wales colour the centre of his heart blue and green.

 

“Well,” he says, casual, though his heart is vibrant, “I could come home this weekend.” 

 

Lovely! I’d love to haunt Wales for a couple of days.  

 

But, I say crossly to Gilmore who now has the brightest eyes in London, you’re not going anywhere until you buy some new shirts and rescue Luke from his duvet. 

 

************************

 

Isn’t extraordinary, how one simple conversation can make such a marked difference on your life? 

 

Gilmore is a changed man, cheerful and bright. It seems the things he thought he’d lost are not lost after all. Well, not all of them. 

 

It’s made a marked impression on his appetite. He’s peering in the fridge again. 

 

Enough with the poached eggs already, I tell him. Come on, if you’re going to win the heart of Mr Ashton and startle your new workmates we’ve got to get you in to some nice shirts. 

 

********************

 

There are men who hate shopping, and there are men who love shopping, and there is a very small proportion of men who are completely indifferent to shopping. 

 

Gilmore is one of the indifferent. 

 

I used to love it, and (I like to believe) I was extremely good at it. Craig would shop with me occasionally, not enthused, not hostile, and if I told him he needed new shirts or new jeans he’d take my advice and buy them. 

 

I can’t remember him ever going shopping on his own. He certainly owned clothes when I met him, and I’ve no doubt he bought them, but I honestly can’t imagine how. 

 

So our trip to the nicer menswear shops on this glorious summer day is going to be an exercise for both of us. 

 

He’s standing at a rack of shirts, idly flicking through the hangers, wondering what size he is. He was never certain. 

 

Sixteen, I remind him, but it doesn’t appear to rise in his heart. 

 

He pulls a shirt off the rack and looks at it. 

 

NO CHECKS, I tell him, put it back. He’s not listening; I think he actually likes checked shirts. Darling, I say, scanning the shop, how about some plain pale blue? 

 

Meanwhile I’m looking around for an assistant to talk some sense into him. 

 

Taffy’s next choice is a nice blue, but he checks the label and hangs it back on the rack. (He is completely and absolutely rigid about one hundred percent cotton. His police shirts were poly-cotton mix, and he hated them. Taffy said you could never get them completely clean. Whatever.) 

 

We could be here all day, so I find an earnest, blue eyed, hard working boy who calls himself Tod (who incidentally has a matching earnest powder blue heart) and have a quick word. 

 

That poor git over at the shirt rack hasn’t a got clue, I tell Tod. Go and help him. 

 

Tod scuttles over to Gilmore in an instant, the thought of making a sale lighting up his heart. 

 

“Can I help you?” Tod asks him nicely. 

 

Craig stares at him for a few seconds. “I want to buy some shirts,” is all he says. 

 

Well, Tod’s a natural at this. He gets Gilmore into the changing room quicker than he can blink and before Taffy knows what’s hit him he’s trying on blue shirts, green shirts, ivory shirts, checked shirts, shirts with tiny subtle embossed patterns, black shirts, lemon shirts – 

 

“How about this?” Tod asks enthusiastically, holding up a checked pale pink shirt. 

 

“No,” we both say definitely. 

 

“Do you want to try these on too? They’ve just come in from Italy.” Having exhausted the possibilities of shirts, Tod’s started hauling in the trousers. 

 

You’ll need nice trousers if you have to work in an office, Taffy. 

 

Craig remains flexible, secretly pleased, I suspect, to have someone doing his shopping for him. 

 

Black looks nice, I tell him. He’s looking at himself side ways in the mirror, and the pants suit him well. 

 

He’s not sure. 

 

“How are they?” Tod asks respectfully from outside the fitting room. 

 

“Okay,” Gilmore replies, but he really hasn’t the foggiest idea how they look. As far as he’s concerned they look like trousers. 

 

“Do they fit?” I suspect Tod wants to inspect the trousers so he can wax lyrical and con Gilmore in to buying them. 

 

Taffy shrugs his shoulders. Vanity is not his strong point, so I help a bit more. Yes, darling, they fit beautifully. You’ve lost a fair bit of weight there, haven’t you? Gilmore puts his hand over his belly as he registers this suggestion and smiles ever so slightly. 

 

“Do you want me to check?” Tod asks a little uncertainly. 

 

That makes Taffy smirk. He straightens his face before he opens the door. 

 

“They’re good,” Tod says as he casts a professional eye over the Gilmore flank. 

 

“Okay,” he says, I’ll take them in black, and navy if you’ve got them.” He thinks for a minute. “Two pairs of each.” 

 

Wild man! I say, delighted.

 

Tod’s also delighted. Six shirts and four pairs of trousers. Gilmore, too, is rather happy – he won’t have to bother about clothes for at least eighteen months, and hopefully then Luke will do it for him. 

 

“New girlfriend?” Tod asks happily as he rings up the purchases. 

 

My staid, honest Taffy shakes his head.

 

 

“I’m single,” Craig says nicely. Silvery images of Luke pop up in his heart. 

 

“Well, these should put paid to that!” Tod wraps up the garments very carefully, and Gilmore fishes his credit card out of his wallet. 

 

***********************

 

Okay, we’ve got you kitted out for work, you’ve kissed and made up with Mam – now you have to go and see Luke. 

 

Gilmore’s sitting on the edge of his bed, getting cold feet. 

 

Craig, I say clearly, Luke has been hiding in his bed for weeks. He’s depressed, misses you terrible, and yesterday went charging over to your place like a colt thinking he could see you again. He looked like the world had ended when you weren’t there. 

 

Craig, you have got to go and see him 

 

Gilmore is looking at his hands, apprehensive, prevaricating. 

 

I wonder if I should let him know how worried I am for Luke. I don’t want to scare him, but I don’t want Luke to get so far gone he tries something stupid.  Maybe I could try a different approach. 

 

Hey Taffy, what did Luke whisper to you on your stag that made you smile? 

 

Craig rubs his hands together and his eyes start to grow warm. 

 

Come on, put on one of those nice new shirts and go get Luke. 

 

And he gets up, gathers the six fresh new shirts and  - I could kick him here – puts them all in the washing machine. 

 

(This used to drive me mad. Every time I bought new sheets or towels or anything made of fabric Craig would whack them straight in the washing machine. He hates the smell of new things.) 

 

Please tell me you’re wearing a plain shirt, I plead with him as he walks off to the shower. 

 

**************************

 

The blue checks. Sigh. 

 

Well, he had a shower, he always looks good in jeans, and he’s walking over to the Twinkie ancestral seat, so he’ll be pink and flushed when he gets there. 

 

He’s so nervous, so worried and so excited at the prospect of seeing Luke again.  Relax, I tell him. You look gorgeous, and Luke is going to be so happy to see you. And be prepared. He’s not well. You’re going to have to be very gentle with him for a while. 

 

We’ve just turned in to Abbots Garden and Gilmore stops dead in his tracks. 

 

What? I say. Why have we stopped? What? WHAT???

 

He’s staring straight down the street, his eyes frigid with loathing. 

 

I look up when I hear a car door slam. Inspector Girl Germs! 

 

Of all the mental cases in all the world, she has to visit Gilmore’s. 

 

Come on, Craig, don’t let her stand in your way. Come on, I say to his heart sweetly and firmly, you’ve come this far, just push her out of the way and go and haul Luke over your shoulders. 

 

I babble every encouragement and solution I can think of in a matter of seconds but I know before I start that he won’t go near her. His heart floods with brown, and he turns on his heels. I’m still standing on the corner, cursing Gina, when I realise Gilmore is halfway home. 

 

A Crack in the Teacup

by Baxter

 

##  Fandom: The Bill

Pairing: Craig/Luke 

Disclaimer: The characters are not mine, and no one, damn them, is giving me any money for this. The story borrows bits from the The Bill (which is not mine either, ergo no money) and the rest is made up. 

Category: Some gore, a healthy amount of swearing (in the good way) and a smattering of tasteful filth. 

 

Chapter Nine

 

“Hello, Luke” 

I’m sitting in the Ashton lounge room with Gina, Luke’s mother and poor frail Luke. Gilmore is probably walking to Wales in his blistering fury; I’ll look him after him as soon as I get rid of Gina. 

Luke doesn’t appear to have heard the Inspector’s greeting. He’s pale, drawn and curiously lacklustre. His skin is a little dry and dull; I don’t think he’s eating at all. 

Worst of all, his heart seems to be disappearing. There is a faint image of Craig but I can barely make it out for the blood, which now drips continuously.

“Luke?” his mother says nicely. 

He looks up, smiling with just his mouth. 

“How have you been?” Gina asks him. There’s my vote for this year’s most stupid question. 

“Fine,” Luke says pleasantly enough, fooling no one. 

Gina and Mother exchange brief glances. I can see in Mother Twinkie’s heart that she’s a little intimidated by Gina, but very grateful to have her here. 

“Have you been to the police counsellor?” Gina asks him. 

Luke looks down and shakes his head. “Not yet.” 

“You know I can organise for him for them to come here.” 

The thought barely registers with Luke, who continues to look down. 

Gina, shrewd and practical, tries again. 

“You’ve been through so much,” she says with compassion. “No one expects you to just bounce back in to real life, but you’ve got to start making – you got to start thinking about recovery,” she tells him. 

Luke nods, but doesn’t say anything. 

“Witnessing a shooting like that is enough to throw anyone off balance,” Gina continues. 

Luke looks up at her sharply, almost as if he is surprised to be reminded of the shooting. 

That’s only half your problem, isn’t it Twinkie, I say. 

I turn to Gina, since Luke can’t hear me anymore. Ask him about Craig, I tell her. She considers this – I can see Craig starting to materialise in her heart \- but apparently Gina has blind spots of her own. 

“Do you want to talk to Kerry?” his mother tries. 

Luke almost sneers, “No.” 

I feel so sorry for him, sitting here under the scrutiny of two women whose approval he seeks in two very different ways. He looks like if he’s about to start sobbing. 

“Are you eating?” Gina tries. (That’s my vote for the second most stupid question. Twinkie looks like death warmed up.)

“He hardly eats a thing,” Mother says quietly. Her heart is flashing shades of orange, worry and alarm. 

Gina’s weighing her options. Ask him about Craig, I say again loudly. To my complete delight she shudders a little. 

“Have you seen Craig?” Gina asks at last. 

Luke casts a furtive glance at his mother. 

“Who’s Craig?” Mother asks. 

Gina realises that Luke hasn’t told his mother much at all. “Sergeant Gilmore,” she explains carefully. “Luke worked with him at Sun Hill. You were good friends, weren’t you?” 

The anguish that spreads over Luke face is pitiful.  He just nods. 

“Have you seen him?” 

Luke looks up at Gina. “No, have you?” 

“No.” 

“Where did he transfer to?” This is the most complex thought Twinkie’s communicated in days; his mother looks at him, uncertain. 

Gina shakes her head sadly. “He didn’t transfer.” She looks plainly at Luke, and even in his confused state he can see the concern in her eyes. 

For a second minuscule specks of hope flash over Luke’s blackening heart. “Where is he?”

Well, I say loudly, a few minutes ago he was down the street coming to save you before the Empress Dowager here turned up and ruined everything. 

“He was pensioned out because of the knee injury,” Gina tells him, and the green specks in Luke’s heart vanish. “I don’t know where he’s gone. He’s moved from that place in Formosa Gardens, but I don’t know where. Adam signed a couple of his termination papers a few weeks ago, but there was no mention of where he was going.” Gina sighs. “I thought you might have seen him.” 

Luke’s eyes go red. “I don’t think he’d be comin’ near me in a hurry,” he says sourly. 

Gina looks at him, concerned. “I’ve left him a few messages, but he hasn’t got back to me.” 

Do you blame him? I shriek at her.  

“I tried calling his mobile but I think he’s changed the number,” Luke adds. This surprises all of us.  “Or he just didn’t want to speak to me.” 

No, Twinkie, I say, his phone was stolen. He would have loved have spoken with you. 

Meanwhile Mother is little confused. She’s not sure about this Craig fellow, and she can’t work out why the mention of him is the only thing that has animated Luke in weeks. 

“Was he a good friend?” she asks her son cautiously. 

Luke looks up at her, gazing at her steadily, sadly. All kinds of colours are rushing through her heart, but I think she’s getting the picture. The hasty engagement. The rushed wedding. The brief marriage.

Her miserable son, slowly starving himself as he suffers under the weight of the two hearts he broke. 

This is all your fault, I say to Gina. (I know that’s not strictly true, but it makes me feel better.) 

 “Do you want me to send the counsellor around here?”  Gina asks. 

Luke looks around him, completely unconcerned. 

“No,” he says after a while. “I’ll go and see him see him myself next week.” 

HE’S LYING! I tell them both, but no one seems to take any notice. 

“Maybe you can go when I go to see Patty,” Mother suggests. 

Patty? Who the hell is Patty? 

Gina’s wondering the same thing. 

“I’m going to stay with my sister for a couple of days next week in Whitby,” Mother explains to Gina. “I’ve asked Luke to come – thought the break might do him good – but he’d rather stay here.” 

Gina looks at Luke carefully. “Well, I might drop in and see you again then, next week.”  

Don’t bother, Girl Germs, I say to Gina haughtily. He’ll be safe in Gilmore’s arms by then. 

***********************

When I get home I find Gilmore in one of his patented black moods, packing his big black duffle bag. 

And where might you be going, Mister? I ask him. 

Not that I need any clues. As soon as I see the Cardiff rugby jersey being folded in the bag I know where he’s going. He’s taking off early to see Mam and Dad. 

Oh, Craig, don’ t be such a sulky puss, I whine at him. Go back and see Luke. Gina’s been around there threatening him with the police counsellor, and she made it worse when she told him that no one knows where you’ve gone. Poor Luke got all teary. Then his mother tried to make him go to Whitby to see someone called Patty, and all Luke wants is to see you. 

Gilmore is counting out pairs of underpants. 

And then, I continue, Gina scared him by telling him she’s going to come and see him again.

Craig’s packing t-shirts, still fuming at having his visit with Luke thwarted by the Inspector.  No use trying to talk sense into him while he’s like this. Maybe, when he calms down, I can get him to drop in on Luke before he leaves. Maybe he could take Luke to Wales with him! (That’d show Dad.) 

Pack the white one, handsome, I tell him as he folds the t-shirts into his bag. He stops for a seconds, and then takes the white t-shirt from his drawer. 

Good boy, I say sweetly. 

Gilmore stands and looks at his bag, all neatly packed, snugly zipped. His face grows darker and darker, his wonderful heart swells with heavy coats of brown and images of Gina standing at his hospital bed, Luke and Kerry staring at each other over Craig’s beaten body. 

“FUCKING INTERFERING BITCH!” he yells suddenly, throwing his bag to the floor and storming out of the bedroom as hard as his cracked knee will allow. 

That’s right, I say soothingly, following him to the couch.  Express your anger. It’s very healthy. 

*************************

He’s lounging on the couch, his sore leg stretched out in front of him, eating strawberries and reading the local afternoon paper. 

Do a bit of comfort shopping on the way home from Luke’s, did we? I tease. Nice for some. 

He’s still angry – there are patches of scarlet all over his heart – but they seem to be dissolving with every strawberry.

He’s reading an article about a missing child, a pretty little curly haired tot whose picture smiles out from the front page. “WHERE IS SHE?” the headline bleats, and Gilmore’s face is intense. I sit next to him to read it too, but to my astonishment I don’t recognise half the words. They look unfamiliar, the way they do when you first start first to read. 

That’s odd, I think briefly. I was always a great reader. Then I forgot all about it. 

************************

Now you ARE going to drop in on Luke before we go, aren’t you? I say to Gilmore, who’s tossing his duffle bag in the boot and getting ready to take off. 

Craig, sweetie, listen to me, I say as he stamps around to get into his car, are you going to see Luke? 

He kicks the ignition over and releases the handbrake. Wales is bright and colourful in his heart. My ex is heading straight home. 

I’ll see you there, I call after him as he drives down the street. 

I figure British rail couldn’t be much worse even if you’re dead. 

**************************

Luke, I call out to him, it is 29 degrees outside. 

Twinkie has slunk under the bedclothes completely. I’m perched up on the end of his bed, looking at the sad mound he forms under the duvet. 

It’s starting to smell a little musty in here, Twinkie – you need to have a shower, and you need to get these bedclothes washed. 

The mound is still.

Luke, you’ll feel much better if you have a wash. We all will. Get up. 

The mound is still. 

Luke, you’re a grown man. You can’t hide in your bed smelling like a farming exhibit forever. 

The mound is still. 

Right, that’s it. I’m telling your mother. 

Mrs Ashton is sitting in the lounge, watching telly, crocheting. She’s very good. 

Mrs Ashton, I hate to be a snitch but Luke needs to have a shower, and he needs to wash those bedclothes. It smells like a sweatshop in there. 

She knots the yarn around her hook, pictures of Luke in her heart. 

At least open a window, I plead with her. 

While I stand there pouting, she turns her worried face around towards the door of Luke’s room. The colours fly in her heart again; she doesn’t know what to do. 

Just get him in the shower quickly, I advise. 

She puts down her crocheting (looks to me like it might be a bedspread) and walks over to Luke’s room, gently pushing the door open. 

The mound moves when it hears the noise. 

He peers over the duvet, his face more pale, his heart still a dark ill-defined sludge.  Mrs Ashton sits down on the bed and puts her hand on what she guesses to be his shoulder. She looks at him, concerned, perhaps a little tearful, shaking her head slightly. 

“I wish you’d tell me what’s wrong,” she says softly. 

“I’m okay,” he says hoarsely. “I ‘m fine, I’m just tired.” 

“You’re not okay. I’ve never seen you like this. Is it the shooting?” 

The blood drops flare up on his heart. 

“Yeah, I suppose,” Luke says after a bit. 

Mother thinks harder, patting his arm as she tries to finds words for it. 

“Was it that Craig? Did he give you a hard time?”

Well, that does it for Twinkie. His face crumples and tears rush down his cheeks. 

They glitter, tears, they glitter with the colours of your heart. The more tears Luke sheds, the more clearly I can see his grief oozing down his face. While I watch them, mesmerised by their pretty facets, I slowly become aware of the agony and sadness in every tear that is being shed across the country, coupled with an awful comprehension that there is no limit to the amount of pain people can carry. It makes me feel very insignificant.

“Oh, Luke!” his mother says, her heart dove grey with helplessness. She fishes a dainty little women’s hankie from the cute pocket of her floral sun shift and tries to wipe his face. Twinkie needs something closer to a ship’s sail at the rate he’s crying, but it’s a start. 

“What did he do to you?” she asks, trying to wipe the heavy rivulets streaming from his nose and eyes. 

“Nothing,” he says, sniffing, a little indistinct. “Nothing.” 

She wants to hug him but she’s not sure how. In her heart I see her holding him as a toddler, pushed up close against her small breasts. She has that feeling now, the same wish to hold him close. 

Just grab him and squeeze, I say. 

“What did he do to you?” she asks again, her voice streaked with concern. “Did he give you a hard time?”

Luke shakes his head, trying to wipe his eyes but it seems to make him cry harder. 

“He was great to me,” he gurgles through his tears. “He was great.” He tries to sit up, but the sobs overtake him, and he slumps down as if an invisible hand of misery and guilt pushes him back onto the pillows. 

The small shots of clarity Mother was getting this afternoon are getting a little bigger. 

Ask him more, I tell mother. Ask him more about Craig. 

She wants to, but she’s frightened anything she’s says will make Luke more distressed. Instead she lightly strokes his closely cropped head, a few fingers down the right side of his scalp, over and over. The gentle touch has two astonishing results – first, Luke’s sobs grow softer, and second, small distinct pools of mauve sparkle on his poor distorted heart for a few seconds. 

“Do you miss him?” she asks. Her heart strains at this; she simply can’t think of any other way to phrase it. 

Luke holds himself still for a few seconds, as if he’s trying to fight it one last time, and then goes down in complete defeat. He nods, his face crushed in an agonised grimace, his heart simply a daub of brittle charcoal. He turns onto his belly and cries as if the world has ended and there’s no left but him. 

The tears are varicoloured – sparkling coral shots, dull grey-khaki, some speckled with fresh blood. 

We sit with Luke for a long time, Mrs Ashton and I, waiting for him to calm down, thinking that maybe this is the worst of it and he’ll start to get better now that he’s cried his heart out.

***********************

She leaves the room when he starts dozing, looking over her shoulder twice, checking that he’s safe. 

I’ll watch him for you, I tell her, just get the tub ready. 

Luke, I say loudly, don’t fall asleep yet. We’re going to give you a wash. Work with me here, Twinkie, stay awake. 

His long straight lashes flutter a little, somewhere between awake and asleep. He is vaguely aware of the sound of running water.

“I’ve drawn you a nice hot bath,” Mother Ashton says when she returns. He stares at her, almost as if he can’t see her. 

Come on, I say, have a bath before we all pass out. 

“I’ll have one tomorrow,” he says, dull and uninvolved. 

Mother leans over him, smiling sweetly. 

“You have to have one now. Even your best friends won’t tell you, but I will,” she smiles. “You smell pretty bad.” 

And this actually makes him smile.  He starts to move, and to the great relief of mother and me, he rolls himself out of bed and makes his laboured way to the bathroom. 

He soaks in the steamy mist, still in the hot water. Meanwhile I’m staring at the soap, wondering what I could say that would make him actually use it. It sits wet and pink on a small soap dish that’s fixed to the tiled wall. 

Then, as if by magic, it just slides of the dish and plops into the water, right into Twinkie’s lap.

I didn’t know I could do that. 

Luke’s as surprised as I am. His eyes grow wide and he stares at the soap as if it might come to life any minute. 

It’s a sign, Luke, I tell him gravely.  God wants you to wash yourself.  Don’t disappoint him. 

Twinkie lathers up within an inch of his life. 

******************************

Mother changes his sheets, so when he gets back to his bed, fresh and sweet, he has the pleasure of climbing into lovely cotton sheets. (She’s used her best ones, bless her, pink floral with matching pillowcases. Poof! I laugh at Twinkie, and though he doesn’t hear me I know he thinks his mother’s used the pink ones on purpose.)

“Do you want me to get you anything to eat?” She asks him gently. 

“No, I’m fine,” he tells her again. He sees the concern on her face and touches her arm with his hand. “No, really,” he says with a faded smile, “I’m fine.”

She waits until he’s under the covers and kisses his forehead. 

“Do you know where Craig is?”  She asks tentatively. 

Luke looks ashamed and shakes his head. 

She wants to press for more information, but she can see how embarrassed he is.

“Get some rest. We’ll talk again tomorrow.” 

I’ll wait here with him until the sun comes up, I tell Mother. Then I’ll nip down to Wales and grab Craig. 

Craig’ll fix him. 

I leave Twinkie very early, just as the sun is coming up, but not before I drop in on  Mrs Ashton, who is wearing a surprisingly pretty nightgown and sleeping under a thin cotton blanket. It’s all pink – bedclothes, nightie, even the lamp besides her bed. I can see a Jayne Mansfield thing happening here. 

I talk to her while she sleeps. You stay here and watch him, I warn. He’s a lot worse than he looks, believe me. Make sure you stay here all day. I’ll be back soon, and I’m bringin’ Gilmore with me. 

That should do it. 

***********************

Swansea’s not so far by train and I can get to Victoria station easily from Luke’s place.  It’s a pleasant walk to the tube. I’m thinking of mothers, motherly love – Taffy’s mother, Twinkie’s mother, the endless elastic love these women have for their sons. Craig and Luke are so lucky to know that love.

The park is beautiful in the early morning light. Dew flashes from every plant, birds exchange information with each other, and not far in the distance I can see a soft powdery cloud settled on the grass. I can’t make it out, it seems to be moving, and it seems to chirp. 

When I get closer hundreds of tiny little phantom heads turn and look at me slowly, then, in unison, hundreds of tiny wings part and fly away as I walk through the ghosts of London’s lost sparrows. 

While I’m contemplating mothers and the ghosts of birds as I walk down a secluded path near the river, a gorgeous little girl suddenly stands before me, pointing behind her. 

“I dwowned,” she tells me nervously. 

I’m not much good with kids – I’ve had so little to do with them – but there’s no one else around and she seems worried.  She is very pretty, pink and gold like little girls are; the space on her chest where her lungs would be is bright blue. 

“What’s the matter?” I ask, kneeling down in front of her.

“I dwowned,” she says again, still pointing at the river, “and Mummy doesn’t know where I am.” 

I’ve got no idea what she’s talking about. 

“Show me,” I say. She takes my hand and we walk down through the slimy morning grass to the bank of the river.  Hidden in between the garbage and the brown reeds is the body of a little girl, stiff in the shallow ledge of the water. 

I look at her and realise then who she is.  The little girl in the paper that Craig was reading. 

“I dwowned,” she tells me again. 

I have no idea what to say or how to help her.

“Come on,” I say cheerfully, taking her hand. “Let’s find someone to tell Mummy.” 

“Can you tell her?” she asks. 

I shake my head. “I don’t think so,” I say, friendly as I can so as not to frighten her. “Let’s go and sit in the park to see if anyone can help us.” 

“Okay!” she says, trusting and cheerful. “What’s your name called?” 

“Sean,” I tell her. “What’s your name?” 

“Melly!” 

“That’s a pretty name.” 

“I’ve got two birds! One’s blue.” 

“Have you?” 

She nods, thinking as we sit down on a bench. “Do you know my Mummy?” 

“No, I don’t, but maybe these people can find Mummy.”  I’ve spotted an older couple in tracksuits walking towards us. They are followed by three energetic spaniels. “But they can’t see us so I have to try something. Want to help me?”

“Yeah!” Melly says, excited. 

I’m not sure if this is going to work, but it’s worth a shot. “We have to tell the puppy dogs where you are. Can you do that?” 

“Uh-huh.” Melly sounds a little doubtful. 

“Well, come on,” I say, taking her hand. “Let’s go!”  And I run off with Melly, straight for the dogs who start yapping at us, frenzied and confused. We  jump around them and then down off the path as the couple yell out to them.

“Down here!” I say to the dogs, who charge over the slippery grass to the sad spot near the river.  As I hoped, the owners, confused as the dogs, follow and try to gather them up.  When they reach the animals they can see them milling around the poor little body. 

“Oh my God,” the woman cries, and bursts into tears. Her husband freezes, torn between running to the child and comforting his wife. 

“Police,” I say to him quietly, and he reaches into his pocket for his mobile. 

“Come on,” I say to Melly, “we’d  better wait up here.” 

We sit and talk about the dogs, about the park, about all the things we can see. 

“Mummy’s very sad,” Melly keeps telling me. 

“I know,” is the best I can answer. 

“I think she might be a bit cross.” Melly doesn’t look at me; she watches the couple, distraught and restless, waving to the first police officers who arrive.

“She’s not cross,” I say. I wish I were better at this. 

“Will they tell Mummy?” Melly asks me as we watch the swelling crowd of police and ambulance officers. One of the coppers leads the distraught woman away. The dogs are now on their leads, barking at the police.  

“Yes, they will.” I can’t think of much to add. “Maybe you could go to see Mummy with one of them.” 

“I live just down there,” she says, pointing to street adjacent to the park. 

I think of Melly seeing her mother’s reaction when the police tell her the news. I think of leaving her here alone. I think about getting to Wales to get Gilmore to save Luke. 

I don’t know what to do. 

“Hello Melly,” a woman says out of the blue. She’s older, maybe in her fifties, her chest stained with a vivid yellow. It’s as bright as sunlight, and, impolite as it is, I can’t stop staring.

“Breast cancer,” she whispers to me. 

“Nancy!” Melly says brightly. They seem to know each other.  “I dwowned!” 

The woman smiles gently. “Did you darling? Are you okay now?” 

“The doggies found me!” Melly tells her.

“That was lucky,” Nancy says nicely. 

Melly nods, looking at one of the police officers patting one of the dogs. 

“I’m Sean,” I tell her. “Are you a relative?” 

She shakes her head. “I used to work in the chemist. I’ve known Melly since she was a baby.” Nancy looks at my stain of death. “Cancer?” 

I nod. “Spreading adenocarcinoma.” 

“Sounds impressive,” she says, interested. 

I shake my head. “It wasn’t.” 

“When did you go?” Nancy asks. 

It occurs to me that I can’t remember. “On a Wednesday,” I say doubtfully. 

“It’s Saturday,’ she tells me. “Last week?” 

“Week before.” 

“You’ve got a week and half left.” 

I smile.  “Do you know what happens then?” 

“No,” she says, serious. “All I’ve heard is that you have to find your mother.” 

“Mine’s dead,” I answer. (My beautiful mother. Where is she?)

“No,” Nancy explains, “your next mother.”  And before I can ask her for more details, she looks at me sadly and adds, “I don’t get it either. Apparently it gets clearer as you get closer.” 

Mothers. Luke, Gilmore. I’ll worry about mothers when I’m on the train – I have things to do. 

“Can I ask a favour of you, Nancy?” 

She sits down with us and I tell her all about Gilmore, all about Luke and all about Wales. 

“You’ve been busy,” she says, impressed. 

“I’m not finished. I have to get the train down to Wales, but I don’t want to leave Melly alone.” 

“You go. I’ll look after her.” 

“Melly,” I say to the little one, “I have to go and see my friend in Wales. Can you wait here with Nancy?”

Melly looks up at me and nods, her pretty little face clear and calm. 

“You look after yourself,” I say. “And thanks, Nancy.” 

“My pleasure.” She looks at me with an amused face. “Watch out for the anoraks on the train.”

I nod politely, only because I want to get going. Anoraks? 

“Bye Sean!” Melly calls out as I head off. 

I turn to wave and see their lovely transparencies glowing amongst the sombre group of police, while in the distance two miserable ambulance officers struggle up the bank of the river carrying a tiny covered shape on a stretcher. 

 

A Crack in the Teacup

by Baxter

 

##  Fandom: The Bill

Pairing: Craig/Luke 

Disclaimer: The characters are not mine, and no one, damn them, is giving me any money for this. The story borrows bits from the The Bill (which is not mine either, ergo no money) and the rest is made up. 

Category: Some gore, a healthy amount of swearing (in the good way) and a smattering of tasteful filth. 

 

**Chapter 10**

All the way to the station, among the throngs already gathered at Victoria, through the sour smelling train – all I can think of is Melly. 

 

Not surprisingly, her memory follows me like the ghost she is. 

 

******************

 

Well, first the good news: British Rail is just as bad when you’re dead. 

 

And the bad news? 

 

Well, as I boarded the train, I thought this could be my chance to fulfil one of the great dreams of my childhood, the dream of every unwanted little boy stuck in boarding school by a busy father and uninterested stepmother, the kids who travelled home alone on the train at the end of each term. 

 

The dream of riding in the front carriage with the driver. 

 

This lovely thought occurred to me as I pushed my through the crowds at Victoria: I don’t have to sit in the cheap seats – I’m a ghost! I can sit with the train man! 

 

And the bad news? Well, guess what trainspotters do when they die. 

 

Hint: they don’t save the objects of their exes’ affections. They don’t sit and comfort lost children. They don’t hang around people’s front yards smelling summer flowers. 

 

They do crowd into the front carriage with the driver. Nancy’s warning was right. Anoraks!

 

There were eight of them up there when I slipped through the door of the driver’s compartment and – I’m serious here (deadly serious!) – they were ALL wearing anoraks. 

 

I travel to Swansea in the first class compartment and think about Melly the whole time. 

 

And, to be honest, British Rail isn’t that bad when you’re dead. 

 

*******************

 

Well, well, well, I say to Craig when I finally get to Gilmore Manor that afternoon, who’s mother’s favourite? 

 

It’s stinking hot, Gilmore is in the kitchen in his ratty old rugby shorts and a tshirt, and his mother is swatting him with a teatowel, laughing as he teases her about something. His brother Dylan is there too, laughing, leaning over the kitchen bench, part of the conversation.  He’s trying to stop himself looking at the interesting scars on his big brother’s knee. They’re red-purple and deep, the mark of each stitch clearly defined, like little train tracks.  

 

Dylan’s heart is a large green one, green like cooking apples. I note with interest that it is about the same size as Craig’s and the same kind of deep true colour.  He’s an interesting specimen, Dylan, in that he looks like Craig in some ways – same dark eyes, very similar sounding voice, same skin tone – but he is about four inches shorter and a bit wider in the shoulders. 

 

They have a friendly relationship, cordial and respectful, but I wouldn’t have said they were wildly close. Which is why, as I stare in Dylan’s heart, I’m amazed to see the reverence in which he holds Craig. His heart is filled with him, and he is clearly enjoying hanging out with him this afternoon, teasing their mother, who is still swatting Gilmore major with the teatowel.  They’re playing, all of them, and they’re having a wonderful time together. 

 

I haven’t seen Taffy laughing in months.

 

She’s tiny, Ida - well, tiny next to Craig. She has the most beautiful colouring, dark hair and very creamy skin, very delicate. You can see a sliver of resemblance between her and her two boys – shape of the jaw, her nose, but when Father Gilmore walks in there is no doubt as to their patronage.  His heart, like Dylan’s, belongs to Craig at the moment and he also shoots quick, concerned glances at the deep scars on his son’s knee. 

 

Funny, I would never have thought Huw to be sentimental, but the images of Craig in his large pearly grey heart are very touching. Taffy in uniform, Taffy in his rugby kit. No wonder Craig’s so hung up about his uniform. 

 

And Ida’s heart – well, I’m relieved to see that Dylan and Craig pretty much get equal billing. It’s a very feminine heart, a pretty buttercup yellow, a bit more pale than Mrs Ashton’s heart. There’s a sewing machine in there as well, lots of people who are probably family, jaffa cakes, Agatha Christie books, lots of images of Huw and, down in the corner, a tiny little fair haired baby. No idea who that is. 

 

The Gilmores are about as functional as a family gets, and they really seem to be enjoying each other’s company. Pity I have to haul Taffy back up to London so quickly. 

 

Ida’s rinsing the teapot, Huw’s grumbling in the fridge looking for the beer, Gilmore major is talking to his little brother about his work. Dylan’s a social worker, and if memory serves correct there have been some rather polemic views on the treatment of repeat offenders in the past. 

 

Dylan’s allegorical heart is a bit of a bleeder. 

 

Well, this is lovely, all this family bonding, I say to my Taffy, but Luke’s going spare, I’ve just finished counselling a drowned child and pushing my way through a trainload of dead anoraks and-

 

No one’s listening. Ida’s swatting Dylan with the tea towel now, and the terrifying Huw is announcing that the Rugby’s on.  The male Gilmores leave en masse, and Ida sits down at the kitchen table with a pot of tea and a book of sewing patterns. Talk about the house of excitement. 

 

I’m going for a walk.

 

Swansea harbour is just lovely this time of year. I entertain myself teasing perceptive little dogs that can see me as I swish around the crowds of coloured hearts out enjoying the sun.

 

When I get back much later that night all of the Gilmores are tucked up in bed; Dylan’s old room is now Ida’s sewing room so he’s ended up on the couch. I could go and haunt Ida, and get her to talk to Craig for me, get him back to London, but Dylan’s closer, and is more likely to understand what I tell him. 

 

******************

 

The general mood around the table the next morning is one of restraint – not only because Australia beat Wales very decisively in the test they watched yesterday afternoon. 

 

They are all discussing the front page of the Sunday paper. It’s Melly, this time a smaller picture of her, and another picture of her poor mother, clearly distraught down near the river where they found her. 

 

“Poor little angel,” Huw says in his terrifying gruff voice. 

 

It’s interesting the perspective his sons have on this; the social worker thinks of the mother, the copper thinks of the child and what might have been done to save her. 

 

Ida is quiet. The image of that fair-haired baby is a little clearer for a few seconds. 

 

After breakfast (which, I’m delighted to say, Taffy cooked) (drove Ida nuts, I might add) Taffy and Dylan are washing up, and Dylan is delicately 

finding his way around the topic of Luke. 

 

“Sorry I couldn’t get down to see you at the hospital,” he starts. 

 

“No matter,” Craig says. “I wasn’t much in the mood for visitors anyway.”

 

“You’ve had a hard year, what with Sean and all.” 

 

They must have been discussing me before I arrived. I’m touched!

 

“But it was good to be with him,” he says briefly, and Dylan nods sympathetically.

 

“Dad said you were in a pretty bad way in the hospital.” 

 

“Yeah, the leg was pretty damaged,” Taffy answers as he washes cups. 

 

“He was really pissed off when he came home.” 

 

“We had a fight.” 

 

“Hmmm. He mentioned that.” 

 

Taffy’s scrubbing at the pan in which he cooked bacon. “What’d he say?” 

 

“Oh, you know. Stuff-all really.” 

 

And they both laugh. 

 

“No, he mentioned something about a copper you’d been involved with.” 

 

“Well, I – Dad got the wrong end of the stick.” 

 

“You still see him? The copper?” Dylan’s been drying the same cup for three minutes. 

 

Craig shakes his head. “It’s complicated,” is all he’ll say. 

 

“He got married, didn’t he?” Dylan’s being very gentle. 

 

“He got separated a few weeks later too,” Craig says a little sourly. 

 

Dylan thinks about this, plotting what to say next.

 

“Is he gay?” he asks his big brother.

 

“I think he is. I think he thinks so too.” 

 

“How old?” 

 

“Twenty four.” 

 

Dylan makes a rather animated surprised face. “Bit out of your usual range.” 

 

Craig shrugs. He’s rather relieved to be talking about it, I can see, and I realise at that moment that since I’ve left he hasn’t been able to discuss it with anyone. 

 

“He was young, yeah, but…” Taffy trails off. 

 

“Old enough to make up his own mind,” Dylan confirms. “You seen him since the break up?”

 

Craig shakes his head. He then tells his brother about Girl Germs, what he knows of the shooting and his reticence about going to see Luke. He is restrained about his feelings for young Twinkie; Dylan, meanwhile, is being very sensitive. 

 

“None of my business, but it sounds like you really like him.” 

 

Taffy gets a bit embarrassed here, and Dylan steps in quickly. 

 

“I see a lot of it at work, young blokes who want to get involved with older, out blokes, and the things that hold them back. It’s a bloody shame, the things some these young blokes get told.” 

 

Craig nods. He’s listening very closely. 

 

“Your bloke seeing a counsellor?” 

 

“Don’t know,” Taffy says, fishing about in the hot soapy water.  He thinks about Luke being counselled, this hasn’t occurred to him before now. “Probably. They’re pretty big on trauma counselling in the force after shootings and the like.” 

 

“I hope he is. But he should be seeing a counsellor, shooting or not. Tell you something, whatever he’s doing he’d want to talk to someone he trusts. You should go and see him when you get back.”

 

Well done, Taffy minor! I say happily.

 

Craig looks quickly at his brother. “Why?”

 

“Well, he seems to have sought you out before, and without even realising it he was probably using you as a bit of role model. Now that he’s out it would be good for him to talk to you as an equal. And anyway, I bet he wants to apologise.” 

 

“Do you think?” Craig is genuinely curious about this. “I don’t know about that.” 

 

You know nothing, I say to Taffy major.   

 

“Yeah, I do, I think he would,” Dylan says. Oh for Christ’s sake that cup is dry, I say to him. Put it down and start on the plates. 

 

Dylan puts the cup down and picks amongst the dripping crockery for a plate. “You know, they’re amongst the highest risk for suicide and self harm, young gay men.” 

 

Taffy does know this, but he hasn’t put Twinkie in that category. 

 

“I don’t think Luke’s seriously suicidal,” Taffy says, little speckles of doubt in his voice. Images of Luke crowd his heart in an instant. 

 

“He probably isn’t,” Dylan says quickly, reassuringly. “But if I were you I’d go and check just the same. Be horrible if he was and you found out too late.” 

 

Ice patches spring up all over the big crimson heart. Fear, great big crusts of it. 

 

Dylan, if I were alive and if I found you as attractive as your brother, I’d kiss you, I tell him. Now finish the wiping up and help your brother pack. 

 

*******************

 

“I wish you’d stay a bit longer,” Ida says as Craig dumps his bag back in the boot that afternoon.

 

“I can’t,” he says, calm and pleasant, but his heart full of Luke. “I’ll come back in a month or so when the job’s settled down.” 

 

“When do you start?” 

 

“The week after next, but I have to go in to the office on Wednesday morning.” 

 

“Well, call me and tell me how it goes.” 

 

Huw’s hanging around Craig’s car, looking at the bonnet. In his heart I can see thousands of images of Craig, and I know he wants to hug him. 

 

They’re an odd bunch, the Gilmores. They really love each other, and like I said they are as functional as a family unit gets, but they are very embarrassed about showing affection. They pat eachother occasionally, and I once saw Ida kiss Craig on his birthday. That’s about it. 

 

Go on Huw, I whisper. Grab him and give him a big kiss. 

 

Ida’s patting Craig goodbye, and he’s about to get into the car. 

 

Go on Huw, imagine if it were Craig who got sick and died. Huw’s heart flares up, and he walks tentatively over to Craig. 

 

“Good luck in the job,” he says gruffly, and puts his hand on Craig’s shoulder. “And I’m sorry about Sean. He was a nice fella. You were a good friend to him.” (They have been talking about me! And I missed it! Hate that.) 

 

Taffy looks at him surprised – Huw probably hasn’t touched him since he was a baby - and he responds by briefly touching his father’s arm. I wait to see if they do anything else, but they slowly move apart. That’ll probably do them for a couple of decades. 

 

Okay, I say, the love-in’s over. I’ve only got nine days left and Craig’s got to save Luke. 

 

Craig thinks about his father and that wild display of affection all the way to the English border. 

 

********************

 

Craig and I once had a hilarious trip home from Wales, looking at those roadside diners, those atrocious restaurants on motorways attached to huge petrol stations. We started joking about taking a franchise on ourselves, serving atrocious food, being rude to the customers, wearing horrible white aprons – everything you associate with those places - and it got so ridiculous, and made us laugh so hard, I actually had to pull the car over to the side of the road. We sat and laughed together for five minutes. We were going to take turns at cooking, that was the thought that really set us off. We laughed until we ached. 

 

You had to be there, but you know what I mean. 

 

Anyway, Craig’s hungry, and he’s smiling to himself when he pulls up at one of those dreadful places for his dinner. I don’t know what possessed him – curiousity because I don’t think he’s ever been in one, missing me a little, or just hungry and couldn’t be arsed in getting off the motorway and finding somewhere safe to eat. 

 

Very nice, I say as I follow him. You can’t be serious, Taffy. 

 

I can smell all kinds of rancid heated fats, mixed with the scent of slightly stale breads and pastries, layering on scents of burnt coffee and some kind of cleaning agent. But the smells were nothing compared to the food. 

 

Craig stands at the counter and looks at the variety of hot foods, miserable in pints of oil in the bain-marie. He can’t see it, but I can, the swarms of neon coloured bacteria swarming through the food. Each dish looks as if is filled with millions of animated Christmas lights. 

 

 Oh Taffy, I say as he looks at the flaccid meats and vegetables, don’t do it. The curried lamb has caught his eye.

 

“I’ll have the lamb, thanks, with rice,” he asks the woman behind the counter. 

 

They could have boiled that rice until Easter and still not killed the germs.

 

“Anything to drink?” the weary woman. Her heart is full of children and a dirty, weary man. 

 

“Just white coffee, thanks.” 

 

She slaps the plate on the counter; I’m about to run out of the place screaming. 

 

Taffy, no, I say, as he sits down to start eating. No no and no, Craig, don’t eat it. He’s not listening; the voracious Gilmore appetite is overtaking any of my pleas. 

 

He seems fine as he drives home; he listens to Astral Weeks twice on the way back in to London. He’s fine when he gets home, fine when he settles down into bed, then at two in the morning he wakes up damp and I can see that gaily coloured garland of little bugs milling in his belly. Saliva pools in his mouth; he makes it just in time to the bathroom, throws up in the bath, slumps to the floor in a sweating shaking heap and throws up twice more. 

 

I did warn you, I say, noting that from the corner of my eye that even stomach acids and vomiting haven’t killed the indestructible little bugs that still glitter amongst the half digested food as he runs the hot tap over the bath. I did warn you. 

 

So that’s why Taffy doesn’t go to see Luke until Tuesday. I did warn him. 

 

Taffy sleeps most of Monday. That afternoon, when I’m satisfied he’s evicted the bulk of the brightly coloured bugs from his belly (it takes several more heaving trips to the bathroom) I make my way over to see Ashton. 

 

It is so hot, this bright Monday. People are walking around in sleeveless clothes, sweaty sandals sticking to their feet making tiny sucking noises on their skin, their faces are moist from the listless close air. The fruit is wilting in the grocers, I can smell their fermenting gases through the thousands of different perspirations in the air around me. 

 

I can see Luke in a DIY store, hovering around a rack of tiles. 

 

I leave you alone for two days and you go domestic on me, Twinkie, I say to him. What are you doing in here? I look at the rack he’s perusing and it frightens me so much I make a rack of paintbrushes tremor. 

 

Luke, no, put it back, no. 

 

His choice confirms once and for all that Luke isn’t just depressed, or even vaguely suicidal. I know he has stepped right over that line and is making his plans. 

 

I’m knocking things over as I try to catch his attention, following him to the counter, desperate. Nothing works. I appeal to the young acne-pocked man with the pumpkin coloured heart who taps at the cash register. Don’t sell it to him, he’s going to hurt himself with it please, I’m begging you, no. 

 

Young pumpkin heart looks at Luke for a minute, almost hesitates, and then places the purchase in a small paper bag. 

 

Luke’s face is completely devoid of emotion. He’s hot – his face is starry with sweat – but his heart is now black and crumbly as charcoal. There’s simply nothing there, it’s like a shadow. 

 

I follow him silently as he walks out of the store with his brand new stanley knife safe in his pocket. 

 

I’m so scared for him. 

 

“Nice walk?” his sweet mother says when he gets home. 

 

“Yeah,” he says, almost brightly. “All packed for tomorrow?”

 

She nods. “You sure you don’t want to come?” 

 

He laughs slightly. “I’m sure. I’m not really in the mood for Patty at the moment.” 

 

He’s going to top himself while you’re gone, I say to her urgently.  Don’t go. 

 

“I’m really worried for you,” she says quickly, her voice catching on her breath. 

 

“I’m fine,” Luke says. I can feel the weariness in his every syllable, the weight of his ashen heart dragging him down. 

 

He goes back in to the bedroom, takes the dull grey knife from his pocket and slips it carefully, neatly, into his top drawer. There is a great deal of order and care to his movements now, as if he is focused on something. 

 

He looks briefly over a haphazard stack of cds in his room, a couple of paperbacks, but nothing interests him. And then he just stands there, distracted, perhaps thinking of something, I can’t tell. He looks so young, so worn out and young. 

 

I wish I could help you, I say to him. I wish I could get you to hear me, I really want to help you. He shudders, as if a chill just swept through the room, but if registers in his heart you could never tell.  

 

Before he flops down on his bed, he has another look in the drawer at his fat little knife. It makes him smile for a second. 

 

And now, for the first time, I simply don’t know what do. 

 

*******************

 

Early the next morning I sit and wait for the sunrise in the park where I met Melly. She’s nowhere to be seen, but the bank of the river is covered with bunches of flowers. Nice to see how people remember you when you’re gone. I can’t remember if anyone bought me flowers. Probably. Craig would have got some. Orchids. Cymbidiums.

 

But it’s not funny, not any more. I thought it was, this being dead thing, the nice little dogs, seeing Craig get on with his life, the scent of summer flowers, watching the colours of people hearts, waiting for whatever happens to me next. Everything seemed so wonderful.

 

Now I’m starting to wonder if I’ve approached it all wrong. 

 

Perhaps I’m being punished? Maybe my handout is to watch poor Gilmore when Luke dies? 

 

Maybe I shouldn’t have interfered, should never have encouraged Craig to see Luke one more time.  Maybe I should have done more, tried to get him there sooner. 

 

I don’t know where to go. I spend my night wandering between one and the other, watching Craig, his heart full of Luke as he curls up to his pillow and sleeps off the last of his coloured bugs; I watch poor Luke, restless, slick with sweat this hot Summer night, counting his last hours.

 

All around me the clear July sky twinkles like eternity itself. 

 

I don’t know where to go. I don’t know what to do. 


	2. A Crack in the Teacup Ch 1-10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Story written by - Baxter

A Crack in the Teacup

by Baxter

 

##  Fandom: The Bill

Pairing: Craig/Luke 

Disclaimer: The characters are not mine, and no one, damn them, is giving me any money for this. The story borrows bits from the The Bill (which is not mine either, ergo no money) and the rest is made up. 

Category: Some gore, a healthy amount of swearing (in the good way) and a smattering of tasteful filth. 

 

  **WINNER OF BEST COMPLETED SERIES SO33 AWARDS 2004**

 

**Chapter 11**

 

Gilmore wakes up pink and rested on Tuesday morning, surprisingly healthy after his cathartic bug encounter.  Not so Luke, who I find already awake in the good sheets with sad, teary eyes. 

 

Please Luke, I say to him once more, please. 

 

His heart is dark but oddly defined in his chest now; to my horror I see a split forming on it’s crackly dark surface. 

 

“I’m going to leave about twelve,” his mother tells Luke as I sit on his bed, trying to get through his charcoal heart. He just smiles at her weakly.

 

Mrs Ashton faffs around all morning, worried about Luke, worried about leaving, worried about not making it to Patty’s on time. She’s packed her pink resort wear to go visit Patty; there’s a jaunty pink sunhat perched on her suitcase. I felt a wash of horrible sadness when I saw it. So innocent.

 

Luke is agitated as he waits for his mother to leave. 

 

“Anyone would think you’re dying to get rid of me,” she teases Luke as he sits around in the kitchen a little later. 

 

Don’t say that, I wince. Luke doesn’t respond, just smiles wanly. There are bags under his eyes, and they look a bit sticky and red. 

 

“I’m going to go around lunch time,” she says. “That way I’ll miss the late afternoon traffic around London, and get there in time for dinner.” 

 

Luke nods, seemingly interested. 

 

“Lunchtime,” he says. 

 

She nods at him, her heart clouding over with concern. 

 

“There’s still time for you to pack and come with me,” she says gently. “You won’t have to hang around us. You can go down to the sea. There’s lots to do there.” 

 

Luke shakes his head. 

 

“I’ll be okay here,” he tells her, not looking up, picking at the pink floral tablecloth.

 

“Okay. But if you change your mind you can come up tomorrow, or for the weekend. I’ll pick you up from the station.” The hope in her voice is pathetic. It catches Luke too, and he looks up and smiles her with real affection.

 

“Thanks,” is all he says. 

 

Her heart is still cloudy. 

 

“Do you think you might go and see the counsellor?” she asks, trying to sound as normal and unconcerned as possible. 

 

Luke looks back down and picks harder at the tablecloth. 

 

“Yeah. I will. Probably this afternoon,” he says unconvincingly. 

 

She doesn’t believe him. Images of Gina appear in her heart. Why? Don’t tell me Girl Germs is counseling part time. 

 

“I think that’s a good idea,” Mother smiles at him. “Go this afternoon.” And the image of Gina is clearer in her heart.

 

************************

 

Gilmore’s in the kitchen, ironing his shirts. 

 

Just one, darling, I tell him over the hissing the iron. You’ll only need to wear one. We’ve only got a couple of hours - just iron one. 

 

When he finishes smoothing the button placket, he stops and looks at the creamy fabric, serious, thoughtful. He’s wondering what the colour is called. 

 

Flags of beiges fly through his heart like little kites. He can’t think of the name. 

 

Beige, I tell him. Hurry up. 

 

He stands and looks at it a little longer. 

 

Beige, cream, ivory, off-white. It’s got me thinking too, pair of poofs that we are.  Taffy’s looking more thoughtful, his brow is creasing. 

 

Ecru, I suggest. 

 

“Ecru,” he says to himself, smiling. 

 

It fills me with tenderness, his careful attention to the smallest detail even when he’s ironing. 

 

Okay, that’s it. Wear the ecru. Lovely for your colouring. Now turn the iron off and get in the shower. 

 

But my Taffy is not a boy for leaving a job half done, and he is so nervous about seeing Luke he’s prepared to waste time doing anything. He carefully irons his other five new shirts, and then he starts rootling through the wash basket for other pieces of cotton and linen. 

 

Craig, I nearly scream, you do not have the time to iron the bloody drapery. Have a shower, get dressed and GET GOING.

 

He seems to agree with me, dropping the crumpled pieces back into the basket and taking his ironed shirts back the bedroom. 

 

Shower NOW, I say. 

 

After a few minutes under the hot spray he starts thinking about Luke very closely. The anticipation flushes through him, lighting up his heart with dozens of images, illuminating his skin, sending his blood pounding. It’s a shock for me, I’ve not seen Craig like this since we were a couple, and to be frank I’m a little embarrassed.

 

I quote one of my old schoolmasters at him before I leave him in dignified peace in the bathroom. 

 

Self abuse is a terrible habit, Taffy.

 

He looks so handsome when he’s ready to go, all showered and clean in his ecru shirt.  We both stand in front of the mirror, making sure everything is right. (Incidentally, I cannot tell you how strange it is to stand in front of the mirror and simply not appear.) 

 

You look gorgeous, I assure him, but I can truly promise you that your sartorial elegance and clean-shaven skin are not going to register with Ashton at this stage. Just get over there and worry about impressing him with your personal style later. 

 

And then the phone rings. 

 

Oh, Taffy, don’t, let the machine – 

 

He picks it up, happy, I think, for a few minutes’ more delay in seeing Luke. He’s so nervous. 

 

It’s Dylan. The Gilmore boys sit and chat for twenty minutes. 

 

Mother Ashton leaves in less than an hour. I can only hope Luke is planning his self-deliverance later this evening. 

 

Taffy, get off that bloody phone and meet me at Luke’s. Hurry. 

 

The bright pictures of Luke are clear in his heart; I can see them from the end of the hall as I leave. 

 

Luke’s helping his mother pack the car when I get there. No, Mrs Ashton, no. You said lunchtime! It’s not lunchtime yet, you’re leaving too soon. 

 

Luke follows her back inside, where she has a cup of hot coffee waiting for her. 

 

“You sure you don’t want me to make you one?” she asks Luke. 

 

“I’m fine,” he says in his dull toneless voice. 

 

She tells him stories about Patty with for fifteen minutes; he seems happy just to sit with her. I can’t tell, but I think he wishes she wasn’t going now. 

 

Please, I say to her, wait a bit longer. Craig’ll be here any minute. Just wait until he gets here – then you can drive to Turkey if you want. 

 

Where the hell is he? 

 

“Okay,” Mother says, rinsing her coffee cup, “I’m off!”

 

Luke looks at her with real sadness. I don’t think you can ever prepare yourself to goodbye to your mother. 

 

“Bye,” he says softly, and to her great surprise gives her a big hug, his face resting down on her shoulder, his eyes at first wide open and scared, then closing gently as he sighs. 

 

I hope she interprets that show of affection as a sign, but instead she’s a little surprised, and appears to think it is a symptom of Luke’s depression. 

 

Please, I say, don’t go, but she’s grabbing her pink floral canvas handbag, walking down the hall, Luke treading behind her in bare feet. 

 

He waves her off from the door and catches sight of her pink sunhat on the backseat of her little blue Datsun. 

 

“Bye,” he says again as the car takes off. “Bye.” 

 

I expect him to sit and stare in to space, but instead he walks, calm and focused, to the kitchen. What, I ask, what now, and he opens a small cupboard near the sink and pulls out a green plastic basket full of painkillers, cotton buds, scrappy boxes of bandaids and cold tablets. 

 

He tears open a box of paracetamol and finds two blister packs of tablets. He counts them one by one – there’s sixteen.

 

“Should do,” he says to the empty space. 

 

He takes a carton of milk from the fridge and I follow him to his room. 

 

Luke is so controlled now, as settled as I have seen him since I met him days ago. His face is almost – not quite, but almost – happy, and he walks to his drawers with purpose. He flicks his thin tshirt off and stands, bare-chested, young and handsome, knotting his fingers together. 

 

Then he sits on the floor, props himself up against his bed, and stares at the tablets. The ugly squat knife is resting in his lap.

 

Sweetheart, I say. Think about it. Do you want your mother to come home and find you all bloody and blue on the bedroom floor? You’ve seen suicides, you must have. Do you want your mother to see the leftovers of yours? 

 

I go on and on, trying to get him to think of his mother. Meanwhile he’s splitting the tablet packaging, popping them one by one into his cupped hand.

 

Craig, I say, Craig. You broke his heart once, do you want it break it for all time? Does he deserve that? 

 

Not working. Luke cracks the tablets in halves, slowly, and when he has a small white pile starts washing down the half tablets carefully, one by one, with milk. 

 

You don’t deserve it. You haven’t done anything wrong. You’ve made the same kind of stupid mistakes we all make. Weigh it up against all the great things you’ve done. 

 

He’s up to the ninth piece of tablet, his gag reflex already making it difficult for him to swallow. He slows down, sips a bit more milk.

 

 I’m torn, I can’t bear to leave him, but I have to get Gilmore. He has to hurry. 

 

The light outside shocks me, it is hot and bright. I can see Taffy in his clean shirt just a few yards away, looking up towards the house as I rush down to him. 

 

You have to hurry, I say, almost causing whirlwinds around him, you have to hurry, he’s hurting himself – 

 

And then Taffy stops cold. 

 

I can’t think of anything profane enough to shout at him, but I’m doing my best when I hear a car door slam. The look of hell on Gilmore’s face is all I need to confirm my worse fears. 

 

Inspector Girl Germs. 

 

Craig, I say firmly, push her out of the way and go and kick his door down. Don’t talk to her, don’t listen to her, just go and get him. I can see it affecting him, he is genuinely worried for Luke and he doesn’t know why.  Craig sets his shoulders square and straight as he walks to the house. 

 

Girl germs! I squeal at Gina as Craig approaches. 

 

She looks up with a start. Her heart flaps with colours when she sees Craig, ice hardens over it. Fear. I hadn’t realised this about Girl Germs - she attacks when she’s frightened. 

 

“Well, if it isn’t Sergeant Superhero, come to save boywonder again. You took your time,” is the first thing she says to Taffy. I don’t know if it’s a joke or an insult.

 

We’re standing just a few feet from Luke’s front door. Craig, I plead, ignore her, just go to Luke. 

 

His heart flares up, scarlet and hot. He has difficulty speaking for a few seconds, but he is no less brave than she is. 

 

“I don’t have to check with you as to how I should conduct my friendships,” he says low and mean. 

 

“Friendship!” she scoffs. “That’s a good word for it.”

 

Craig’s heart is moving as if it’s covered with flames. 

 

“He could have done with your friendship before now,” she continues. “I left you three messages telling you what he was going through –“

 

“I was with Sean,” Craig splutters, his eyes furious. 

 

Walk away, I say, it’ll take him about seven minutes to bleed to death if he doesn’t choke on his own vomit. Walk away Craig. 

 

“Ha!” she scoffs. “With Sean. Bit of sympathy fucking on the side?”

 

He could hit her he’s so angry. He claws at his own hands, controlling himself. 

 

“No,” he says calmly, almost growling. “No. No sympathy fucking. He had cancer. I stayed with him while he was sick.” He won’t give her any more details, but he doesn’t have to, a sepia veil of shame covers her heart. 

 

Humble pie? I say to her. Shall I cut you a big piece? Craig, just get inside.

 

“How is he?” she asks, sheepish. I ask at this point that you note the Inspector has not apologised. 

 

“He died. He died two weeks ago.” His voice catches in his throat and he looks away. I know it isn’t so much grief as having to use me as an excuse. 

 

She stands looking at a bunch of keys in her hand. It is in her heart to touch him, or even hug him, but thankfully her native intelligence kicks in and she keeps her distance.

 

I’m getting desperate. They could argue for hours. 

 

Craig, just go in the house. He’s hurting himself as we speak. 

 

Gilmore looks up to house, hearing me, suddenly getting it. 

 

“I have to take Luke to the counsellor. I organised with his mother to pick him up this afternoon…”

 

But Gilmore just walks away, towards the door. I rush in ahead of him, and I think it’s going to be too late. 

 

The milk carton’s empty, tossed across the room. 

 

Luke’s bilious and heavy eyed, still in the same spot, taking deep breaths. The chubby little knife is gripped tight in his right hand and he holds his left hand open in front of him, palm up. He counts to himself in an eerily happy voice, ready to take the plunge. “One,” he says, “two, three…”

 

Swish! He swipes the blade hard across his left hand, across the middle joints of his fingers. It hurts, his face goes white with pain, and he cries out, then before the blood starts, cuts another horrible strip about an inch under that one. It hurts too, and he cuts a third time, across his hand, and we’re both astonished at the sudden rush of blood that appears from nowhere, great cheerful red stripes of it. The more it runs, the more Twinkie cuts. He opens his hand in two more places before he starts diagonal hacks on his arm, not deep enough I don’t think, but long and bright, dripping everywhere. I can feel it, feel every delicate nerve ending he slices apart, every tiny skin cell he crushes under the blade. Blood runs down onto the tiny creases in his belly, forms huge violet patches on his old jeans, plops heavily on to the floorboards to make sparkly wet ponds. 

 

When there’s no clear space on his left arm he swaps hands, blood everywhere, horribly compelled, the knife wedged uncertain in his slippery cut hand, crying out loud and clear now as he ploughs into his right hand, deeper across the palm. He seems angrier, as if the pain is spurring him on, and suddenly the great crackling charred lump crust that covers his heart breaks away and I can see his beautiful shimmering coral heart, filled with just one image of Craig holding him up close in his office, then confused images of Kerry, smiling and patting her belly and then blood, a kid holding a gun at him, Craig kicked and bleeding and shuddering, and finally a white, waxy, dead baby, almost like a drawing. 

 

I’m rushing to the front door, hurting all over with Luke’s pain, furious, catatonic with misery, aching all over.  I can hear Gina refusing to open up until Craig goes, and I concentrate on the door with more spirit than I have ever done anything. 

 

It just pushes open as if a ghost walked quietly though. No one notices.

 

Gilmore, I say sharp and loud and straight to his heart as he still argues with Gina.  Listen. 

 

And he stops, my Taffy, and hears Luke’s weak miserable cry and charges in so fast he nearly knocks me over, making his way to Luke from the directions of the heartbreaking cries. 

 

The image of his son and the image of Craig are all that remain in his heart as Luke starts his way down his right wrist. Tears are streaming down his contorted face, his breath in ugly irregular gasps, the ferocious red lines pouring all over him while his heart cleaves in two.  He’s now covered in blood, slipping away inch by tiny inch, his exhausted face turned away from the mess he’s made. 

 

“Jesus Christ, Luke,” Craig cries when he finds him covered in the shocking gashes. Luke looks up slowly, barely seeing him, the fat little grey knife now loose in the awful wet crimson fingers. 

 

Gilmore rips the good sheets off the bed and is shredding them, tearing them apart with no effort at all, wrapping Luke’s left hand so tightly his arm changes colour. 

 

“Oh my God, what’s he done?” says the Inspector, who was seconds behind him. 

 

And that, of course, is this year’s most stupid question.

 

“Call an ambulance,” Taffy roars at her as he binds the arm tightly a second time, his own fingers slippery and red. It’s everywhere, Luke’s vibrant blood, Craig’s hands look like he’s been dipped in it.

 

“Stay with me Luke,” he whispers to him, “stay with me.” 

 

He’s trying to get Luke to sit up while Gina barks into her mobile, pulling rank on whoever was unfortunate to take her 911 call. She’s kneeling next to Gilmore, holding the sheet down tight with her free hand as Taffy starts wrapping the pretty strip around the deeper angrier cuts on Luke’s right arm. Inky patches of blood seep straight through the fabric and Gilmore binds tighter, blood speckles on his shirt. It takes longer to compress this bleeding; Craig wraps three times before the ruddy stains stop rising to the surface.

 

 

“Can we get him on his side?” Gina asks, hushed and efficient, snapping her mobile shut.

 

“I’ll try.” 

 

He gently slips his hands under Luke’s arms and tries to lean him over. For the first time I see that Luke’s ribs are visible - Craig can feel them too, it flashes through his heart how much weight Luke has lost. 

 

“I need to lay you on your side, Luke,” Craig tells him softly, urgently, his eyes frantic.

 

Luke groans, opens his eyes briefly and barely whispers. 

 

“It hurts,” is all he says, looking Craig square in the eyes. Then, as if in slow motion, Luke leans forward, Craig still holding onto him, and throws up foamy curdling milk and paracetamol all over the freshly ironed shirt. 

 

Gina shudders, I want to run out of the room screaming again, but Taffy just leans over with a piece of sheet and gently wipes Twinkie’s mouth. “Better?” he whispers tenderly. 

 

 Gina watches this gesture with silent admiration. “I’ll get you some wet towels,” she tells him, and rushes off to the bathroom. 

 

“It hurts,” the ecru Twinkie tells Craig again, his eyes slipping back in to his head.

 

“I know,” he soothes, trying to get Luke on his side, “I know it hurts.” It’s hurting Gilmore too, not just his huge alarmed heart. His knee is throbbing, kneeling like this, but he won’t move. 

 

“How many did he take?” Gina’s, back with hot wet towels, picking up the empty paracetamol blister pack. 

 

Do you ever ask sensible questions? I ask. 

 

Gilmore doesn’t even look at her; I doubt he even hears her. 

 

“Ambulance is coming, Luke,” he tells him softly, wiping the pale tear streaked face firmly but carefully.  “Won’t be long. Stay with me.”  He wipes gingerly at the blood covered chest and stomach, terrified there are more cuts. “Stay with me,” he says. 

 

Twinkie moans again, drooling and still nauseated, his eyelids twitching as he watches Craig. His heart is now clear and coral, pretty and bright as an angel’s wing. 

 

The split has stopped. But there’s nothing there. 

 

Taffy has his fingers at the pulse on Luke’s neck; he looks up at Gina, alarmed. 

 

“How far away is that ambulance?”

 

“They said three minutes,” she answers, kneeling on the floor beside him and feeling the pulse herself. 

 

“Shit,” she says, when she feels how weak it is. “Did he cut any arteries?” 

 

“Don’t know,” Taffy, says, checking that the rosy bands are tight as he can make them. Small blossoms of blood are finally rising on the right arm.

 

Craig strokes the top of Luke’s head and gently runs the back of his fingers over his cheek. It’s in his heart, how long it is since he’s touched Luke. He finds it hard to take his hand away from the still warm face. 

 

And then the siren’s at the end of the street. I rush out with Gina and see what could only be described as a keystone cops version of an emergency vehicle, except only two of the officers are actually alive. 

 

Travelling with the two live paramedics are the ghosts of two policemen, a paramedic, a fire brigade officer, a journalist and an Alsatian hanging out of the passenger window, barking.

 

They all crowd into the house, discussing Luke’s prognosis. 

 

“Suicide,” one of the paramedics says. His liver is a glittering lime green. 

 

“He’s still there, though,” one of the cops says. He has a bright violet stain across the front of his head. 

 

I don’t know who owns the dog, but I can say that I’m not surprised it’s dead. It’s running around in circles, yapping and chasing its tail. 

 

“What happened here, mate?” the bloke in plain clothes asks me.

 

 “And you are?” I say coolly.

 

“Mick Barnsworth, Manchester Chronicle,” he grins. His lungs are a virulent grey, like ash. “Lung cancer,” he says when he catches me looking. “What about you?” 

 

“Cancer too,” I tell him. 

 

“Me too,” says the paramedic with the glittering liver. 

 

“Robbery gone wrong,” the copper with the violet stain says sadly. “Hey!” He brightens up suddenly when he sees Taffy helping lift Luke on to the trolley. “That’s Craig Gilmore! We were at Hendon together!” 

 

The dog runs into the room, jumps on the bed, runs across the windowsill, round the trolley and back across the bed. They’ve just gently placed Luke on the stretcher, he appears now to be unconscious. Craig’s heart is dark, his eyes are anxious as he tells the ambulance officer about the wounds, the drugs. He taps the milk carton with the tip of shoe, indicating the method by which Luke got the tablets down. 

 

“Geddown, Porky,” the Fire brigade man says. He has a big navy blue lump in his neck. “Blood clot,” he tells me, before he starts on Porky again. “Siddown, you stupid bastard.” 

 

“Police dog,” the other copper tells me. “Well, he could have been, if he was smarter.” 

 

“What happened to him?” 

 

“He got hit by an icecream truck,” the purple stain copper says. “Do you know Craig?” 

 

“I was his partner for two years,” I say proudly. 

 

“Oh yeah?” purple head says. “He was a poof, wasn’t he?” 

 

“Still is, by the look of it,” the paramedic says, watching Craig follow the trolley out. “Did he do the patient’s bandages?”

 

“He did,” I say formally. Well, it’s intimidating, all these professionals quizzing me. 

 

“Did a good job,” he says admiringly.

 

“Who’s the patient?” green liver asks. 

 

“A cop he worked with.” 

 

“Where?” both cops ask in unison. 

 

“Sun Hill.” 

 

“And is that his mother?”

 

“That’s inspector Gold.” 

 

“Why is she here?” the journo asks. 

 

“She’s a meddler,” I say snidely. 

 

“Did she do it?” Purple head asks. 

 

I am very tempted to cause some serious mischief here, but I want to get to the hospital with Craig. 

 

“He did it to himself,” I say, and they’re all quiet, except the idiot dog. 

 

“Broken heart,” the fireman says quietly.

 

“I’ve got to get to the hospital,” I tell them.

 

“Righto,” green liver says brightly. “We’ll come with you.” 

 

Fabulous. “Can’t you go with the Inspector?” I say reasonably. “We’ve got an emotional situation here.”

 

“We could help,” one of the cops says. “We helped a man give his sister mouth- to-mouth down at the Lido on Sunday.” 

 

The others all nod and murmur in agreement about how helpful they are. Girl Germs adjusts her cardigan as she follows the trolley; she seems to be feeling the cold. 

 

“He’s got two live ambulance officers and a Police Sergeant to help him,” I whine. “He doesn’t need to be attended to by a pack of ghouls.” 

 

Well, they loved that, and they all follow Gina, laughing and calling each other ghouls, Porky lopping up behind them, barking.  

 

“When did Gilmore make Sergeant?” Purple stain asks me as he follows the others. Bloody coppers – job first, everything else second. Honestly, these people have no life. 

 

I pretend not to hear him, looking over my shoulder at Luke’s room, the floor and bed smeared with his blood. 

 

The Inspector unwittingly takes the ghouls to the hospital, not before flashing her warrant card at the paramedics and insisting Sergeant Gilmore travels with Luke in the van. Even in a time of emotional emergency this untruth flashes across Craig’s heart, but he doesn’t argue. 

 

We’re not far from the hospital when one of the live ambulance officers is taking Luke’s blood pressure for the second time. A look of grave concern comes over her face and she turns to Craig, hunched uncomfortably on the other side of the patient. 

 

“Paracetamol, you said?”

 

Craig nods and hands her the empty blister packet. “I think he threw them all up,” he says, worried. He’s still got that wet towel and rubs absently at the stain Luke made on his shirt over and over, not realising what he’s doing. 

 

There’s dried blood all over his hands too; the paramedic hands him a moist antiseptic cloth. She’s very worried about Luke; in her heart she believes he’s probably going to die. Cardiac arrest, she’s thinking.  

 

She asks Craig a series of questions about the vomiting, all the while covering the bandages with industrial strength elasticised bands. Then she talks to Luke in that loud clear voice medics use with unconscious patients. 

 

“Luke, how many tablets did you take?”

 

The curiously clear eyes shutter at her, but he just shivers, tremors running through him, his face ashen. 

 

Gilmore flexes his fingers and, unable to stop himself, reaches out and gently squeezes Twinkie’s foot through the white cotton blanket. 

 

“Stay with me,” he whispers again. 

**Chapter 12**

 

“Any news?”

Craig, slumped against the dull pale wall, shakes his head without looking up at Gina. 

“You took your time,” I say to her in my mean voice. I’ve been dashing between Luke, groaning in the emergency room, and Gilmore, almost on the verge of a breakdown himself as he waits for news. 

Only Mick the Journalist is with her. 

“Where’s the rest of the ghouls?” I ask him. 

“Oh, they stay with the ambulances,” Mick says, looking around. “How’s the sooey?” 

“The what?” 

“The suicide.” 

“He’s still alive. They were pumping his stomach when I last looked.”

“Ugh,” says Mick. “Is he going to be alright?” 

“Well, from what they’re saying in there, I think so. They’re worried about his liver and his heart. Apparently they have to replace the blood slowly or he can go into cardiac distress.” 

“Is that so?” But Mick, like all journos, has a very limited attention span with facts. He’s looking around the odd assortment of people and hearts in the waiting room. “He’s got a nice heart, hasn’t he?” he says of Craig. 

“He’s a good bloke.” 

“Well, I hope his boyfriend is alright.” A pregnant woman waddles past us, supported by her husband, and followed closely by the ghost of a young teenage male. 

“Never seen a birth!” Mick says brightly, following the trio. “Catch ya round.”

Craig sits himself up a little straighter. He’s knee’s still hurting.

“He’s in the Emergency room,” he answers Gina. “They’ve pumped his stomach, but he’s lost a lot of blood.” His voice is shaky, wavering on tears, but he won’t cry in front of Gina, not my Taffy.

“How many cuts? Did you see?” She asks this with genuine concern and delicacy, truly aware of the very thin ice she is treading with him. 

Craig shakes his head slightly again, staring into space. In his heart that’s all he can see, the horrible lines Luke hacked into himself. 

“A lot on his hands,” he says, tracing his own fingers along his palm. “Worst one – the longest – was on his right arm.” He lightly touches the same place on his own arm, absently, suffering for Luke. 

They’re quiet for a bit then Gina reaches in to her enormous big leather bag and pulls out a frosty bottle of juice. Guava and Pineapple. It makes Taffy smile in a sad way, not just because it’s his favourite flavour, and not just because he’s hot and thirsty, but he knows it’s a peace offering. He’s right, I can see it in her heart. Pure clear yellow – the colour of apology. 

“Thanks,’ he says, looking at her, nodding slightly. 

He knocks back a big draught and carefully licks the small trace of juice from around his lips. 

You missed a bit, I say. Right hand corner. He dutifully licks the corner of his lips. 

“Did you know he was this bad?” he asks, still not looking up. 

“I knew he was depressed, but I had no idea he was genuinely suicidal. I mean, I wouldn’t pick him as suicidal at all, not under any duress.” She thinks for a minute. “But I was serious, what I said to you before, about me trying to contact you. He’s had a really hard year.” 

It is on the tip of Craig’s tongue to say, “I told you so,” but he bites it, and listens carefully, not interrupting, as Gina takes him through Twinkie’s last six months. He only looks up when a nurse or doctor walks past, every time hoping that someone has some news for him. 

Gina tries to skip over the atrocious outing the former Mrs Ashton performed, but Taffy grabs it like a terrier, shaking it over and over. 

“At Jim’s wedding? She outed him at a wedding?”

“Look, Craig, they’d been through a lot..,”

“She outed him at a colleague’s wedding?” I’ve never actually seen the look that he’s wearing at this moment. It’s a mixture of disbelief, indignation and rage. 

“It was a very mixed up relationship….,”

“She’s a complete bitch,” he says angrily, leaning forward, rocking slightly. “You wonder why he tried to kill himself.” 

Gina says nothing. She knows he’s right. She gives him a few seconds, and then she describes the shooting as she knows it. And that, of course, explains the blood I saw splashing on poor Twinkie’s heart, hour after hour, day after day. 

“But I thought he was just unhappy, confused. I thought he’d be better once he left,” Gina explains. 

You’re wrong about nearly everything, aren’t you, Girl Germs? I say with a satisfied leer, and I’m satisfied to report that she shudders again. 

Across the bench in Craig’s heart, there are crowds of images, Luke cutting himself over and over. It all makes sense to him now. He thinks about it for a long while. 

“Have you told his mum?” he says eventually.   

Gina shakes her head. “She doesn’t have a mobile, and there was no answer at the sister’s. I thought I’d give it a couple of hours – not the kind of thing you want to leave a message about.” 

Craig nods. He’s thinking of the blood stained room, his mother coming home and finding that. 

“Does his mother know?”  He takes another sip of his juice.

“What? That he’s gay? I think she’s got a good idea. She’s called me a couple of times – that’s why I came today, to drag him to the counsellor – and she’s tried to raise it with me.” 

Gina swallows hard. “I’m not saying this to upset you, but she asked Luke about you a few nights ago and apparently he just broke down.” 

Craig’s heart seems to wither a little. He swirls the remaining juice in the bottle.    

“I had no idea, I mean, I got your messages a couple of weeks ago, but I had no idea he was like this.” 

“Well, you wouldn’t.” The inspector’s heart is still yellow, and without any self-consciousness she reaches out and takes Craig’s hand. She holds it tightly for a long time, and he doesn’t try to pull it away. 

“You know he did it the wrong way,” Gina says. 

Craig nods. 

Wrong? What was wrong? 

“He still could have died,” Craig says. “I’ve heard of that, cutting your wrists like that to bleed to death slowly. “ He gulps a bit, looking away, still holding Gina’s hand. “It’s supposed to be more peaceful.” 

Gina squeezes his hand while she thinks of something to soothe him. 

“He’s still here,” she says finally, though not entirely convinced. “He’ll be alright.” 

Taffy nods. 

Girl Germs, meanwhile, is earning my grudging admiration as she thinks of things to take Craig’s mind of the unstable Luke. 

“So tell me about Sean,” she says after a few minutes as they sit in the stifling uncomfortable waiting room. 

Well, I know that story, so I take a walk. Mick the dead journo has got me thinking about babies. I’ve always wondered what happens in maternity rooms, and here’s my chance to find out. 

On my way I drop in to see Twinkie, who’s now trussed up like a pale chicken, big bags of blood and fluid draining into a canula they’ve fixed in his foot. An exhausted intern is patiently stitching his arm closed. Not all of his cuts have been stitched though; Craig did a good job with the sheets, so the more shallow cuts have been taped shut with thin pieces of steritape. The worse ones are tacked up with black Dacron, the tails of threads like tiny insects settled over the wounds.

Luke’s awake, bleary eyed, looking away from the doctor. He smells oddly fresh and slightly acidic; his skin sweaty and a little clammy.  They’ve tucked one of those cotton waffle blankets around his shoulders – he shivers a little every now and then – and his arms are stretched out, vulnerable cut side up. 

It must hurt. I count fifteen gashes on both hands and arms, sharp and red, contrasting against his young smooth skin. A nurse with a tray of sealed dressings pushes past me, ready to bandage the right arm that already has been stitched shut. 

“How’s it going?” she asks the weary intern. 

“Nearly finished,” the intern answers. “Another four stitches here, and then just that one.” She points to the last gash – red and dry, like an afterthought – with her gloved finger. 

“How you feeling, Luke?” the nurse asks him. 

“Good,” he says weakly. 

“Has anyone explained the fluids to you?” 

He shakes his head. The weary intern snicks another stitch. 

“You can’t eat for twenty four hours,” the nurse explains clearly. We have to keep to keep your stomach clear, and watch your liver. Okay?”

He nods, looking at his drip.

“We’re giving you saline, some antibiotics and some blood. You lost a fair bit of blood, so we might have to give you a couple more units until your blood pressure’s up. Do you understand?”

Luke nods again, straining to be attentive. 

“We had to put the canula in your foot, all the veins in your arms collapsed,” the nurse continues. It’s only for a day or so until your arms are a bit better, then we’ll try and site one in your hand.” She looks briefly at the drip valve, the long needle thrust into the vein on the side of his foot. “I’ll put a cover on that in a moment.” 

She looks at the drip, checks the fluid is travelling soundly. 

“You can have a bit more oxygen when the doctor’s finished. Okay?” 

He nods, mostly uninterested. I wonder if anything will ever rouse him again – his pretty heart is completely blank. 

And then an image slowly rises to the surface, the way something might gradually become visible under water on clear day. 

“Is Craig still here?” he asks softly. 

“The officer who came with you?”

Luke nods, the image a little unstable in his heart. 

“He’s outside. I told him he could see you later.” 

Luke just nods again, and, steeling his courage, turns to looks at the intern stitching the sensitive skin on his arm. The horror of what he’s done to himself suddenly hits him and it flashes through his heart, the grief he tried to slice out before it choked him from the inside. 

He closes his eyes and turns his handsome young face back to the pillow. The nurse regards him for a few seconds, and then silently starts to wrap his left hand.  

I’m about to walk away and see the baby production line when something occurs to me. 

“Craig really wanted to talk to you today, Luke,” I say to him. “He’s really missed you.” 

I don’t have to tell you how I felt when I saw the image of Craig in his heart grow strong and clear as a small flicker of light sparked in his eyes. 

**********************

“Am I dead?” 

I’ve been side tracked on my way to the babies and ended up in the cardio-thoracic ward. A huge florid man with a big bottle green heart has stopped me. 

“What?” 

“I had a heart attack and woke up and all these doctors were leaning over me bashing my chest. Am I dead?” 

“You saw your body?” I ask him. 

“Yeah! Bastards were bashing it.” 

How could anyone be so stupid not to realise that they’re dead? 

“Did that kind of thing ever happen to you while you’re alive?” 

He thinks about this for a couple of seconds. 

“Nope!” he says with a satisfied grin. “Shit! I’m dead!” He finds this endlessly entertaining. 

“Enjoy,” I say, walking off to find me some babies. 

“Wait! Whadda I do now?”

“What ever you want,” I say evenly. Most of us go and see our families and friends. You can help them out in small…,”

“Can I go and see my mistress first?”

Ugh. “Do what you want,” I say. “I have to go and see the babies.” 

“What about heaven and hell?” he calls out after me.

“You’ll find out in three weeks,” is all I answer. As if it would make any difference to him anyhow. 

*******************

Well, it’s bedlam in the maternity ward. I had no idea. I was expecting to see cranes and heavy duty industrial machinery and instead find screeching women and exhausted fathers, a lot of whom are being soundly abused by their agonised spouses, all attended by cheerful medical staff who seem completely oblivious to the graphic work they are performing. 

And the wards are thick with ghosts. They’re everywhere. If you ever want to find out where dead people go when they die, check the maternity wards.

Mick the journo is up there with one of the coppers. 

“Wow,” I say to him, as we watch a nine pound baby boy slip free, floury and blue-pink, smeared with blood and slime. It’s an odds-on bet for who makes more noise – the baby or his mother.

“No wonder they think we’re stupid,” the journo says. “They know we could never do that.” 

I’m about to make a retort about shaving every day, but suddenly it doesn’t seem funny. 

“Why are all the dead here?” I ask him. “Do you know?” 

“Looking for the mothers, apparently.” 

“What do you mean, mothers?” 

“Well, I can’t get the full story, but apparently we get to choose our own mothers when we come back. Some of the dead here have been tailing these women since they died. They chose their new mums and make sure they’re here when she gives birth.”   The journo goes quiet for a minute. “If you think the birth is good, you should see the point when the soul enters the body.” He shakes his head slightly, a look of wonder on his face. “It’s extraordinary, the most beautiful thing you’ll ever see.”

“Yeah?” I’m very interested in this, since it should be happening to me in a few days. 

“You remember what it was like when you died, you know, that big light explosion you had?” 

I nod. You never forget your own death, well, at least not while your dead. 

“It looks a billion time better. But in reverse. We were all blinded by it.”  We watch the delighted father cut the big fat umbilical cord.  It is compelling, a truly satisfying sight. The mother is still weeping and cursing him, but she seems a bit quieter. 

“Lots of odd scents, aren’t there?” Mick observes. He’s right – it’s a fragrant yet bitter cocktail of human life and every fluid associated with it.  

The big fat baby is squalling in its father’s arms. The mother is sweaty and boneless with fatigue but manages to hold out her arms.  Her heart, which was a pale melon colour a few minutes ago, is suddenly glowing with the lovely mauve of motherly love. The big fat baby has the cutest fragment of brilliant white light in his chest. 

“He was an old bookie from Shoreditch,” the Mick the journo says. “Skinny little bloke. Said he wanted to come back a really big bloke. Wanted to be a boxer.” 

The father, now kissing the new mum’s damp forehead over and over, is at least six foot one, and thirteen stone if he’s an ounce.

“Well, judging by dad, there’s a good chance he will,” I say quietly. 

********************

I think about it all the way back to the emergency ward. My beautiful mother, whom I barely knew. Where did she go? Did I choose her as carefully? 

I’m concluding that the whole process of being dead is actually a good deal more difficult than being alive. 

Taffy and Gina and still sitting in the emergency room. He is a good deal more relaxed, and they are talking easily. It appears the kissing and making up process is well under way. 

“Look, it’ll keep you in touch with the met and police practice, Craig,” I hear Gina saying as I approach. “Something else will come up.”  They’re talking about his job. I’ve missed it again.

Taffy shrugs. “Maybe,” he says. “But I just don’t want to do it. I want to be back in uniform.” 

Gina pats his leg. 

“What did the Police Board doctor say?” 

“I can’t run. My leg’s really weak – I can’t even stand on it for long periods yet. I couldn’t do a shift on the beat.” His badge and stripes come up in his heart again. “ They said they’re restructuring an arm of the Met, that in a few years desk jobs will be more common for uniform, but the trial positions – and they’re only in a few a stations – are going to people with more severe disabilities. You know, wheelchairs.” 

“Look, the yard job sounds fine,” Gina says again. She is on her best behaviour, but she is sincere in her reassurances to Taffy.

“Yeah, maybe,” he says. “I just wanted..,”

“Craig Gilmore?” 

A male nurse has approached. Taffy springs to attention. 

“You came in with Luke Ashton?” 

“I did.” His heart is beating so fast. 

“I can let you see him now for a few minutes,” he says. 

“How is he?” 

The nurse is distracted and tired. His lime-coloured heart is full of dozens of ill and wounded patients.

“He’s okay. We haven’t found him a bed yet. He’ll go into the general ward when we have.” 

“No, I mean, is he okay?” 

The nurse isn’t really sure. “I can get the doctor to talk to you later.” 

“You can get the doctor to talk to me now,” Girl Germs says, flashing her warrant card. 

The nurse just looks at the card and nods. He’s had a bad day, so being reprimanded by old Girl Germs barely scratches the surface. 

“Of course. Mr Gilmore, if you want to go through there.” 

But Craig has already made his way to through to the emergency ward. 

He finds Luke behind drawn curtains, sad and pale on the bed, both hands completely bandaged. Just the ends of his fingers and his thumbs peek out of the miles of crepe gauze with which they’ve covered him; the bandages are wrapped nearly to his elbows. 

Taffy’s heart glows a little when he sees him, and, better still, so does Luke’s. 

“Hey,” he greets the patient softly. 

“Hi,” Luke says, a little throaty. He’s too embarrassed to look at Craig in the eye, but he can’t stop looking at his face. 

He’s not going to bite you, Luke, I say to him soothingly as I settle down on the end of the bed. 

Taffy’s not quite sure what he should do. Luke hasn’t given the impression that he’d overjoyed to see him, and Taffy doesn’t want to make him any worse than he already is. 

He finds a chair and pulls it up to the bed. 

“How are you feeling?” he asks. This would have sounded silly coming from anyone else, but he asks with sincerity and Luke understands him straight away. 

“Sore,” he says softly, looking at his freshly bandaged paws. “Stupid.”

“Don’t feel stupid.” Craig is talking very low to him, very concerned. “You’ve had a hard year, and you snapped. Nothing to feel stupid about.” Taffy can see he’s absorbing this, so he continues. 

“People break down under far less what you’ve had to endure.” 

Luke nods. It hasn’t occurred to him that maybe it isn’t all his fault. His heart, I notice, is starting to shimmer a little, as if it is coming back to life. 

“Lucky you found me,” Luke says briefly, his voice catching a little. “Thanks.” 

“It’s okay.” Craig looks at him, his eyes all over Luke’s face, taking it in. “If I hadn’t, Gina would have.” 

“That would’ve been fun,” Luke says weakly and without thinking. Taffy grins.

And then they’re silent for a bit. Luke’s heart seems to move; the pretty coral Ashton heart seems to have little tiny little tentacles. It looks like grass rippling under a breeze.

“How are you?” Luke asks, a bit hesitant. 

“Good,” Taffy tells him. “Worried for you.”

Luke wonders what to say. Tell him what’s in your heart, I suggest, and he does. He can hear me.

“I tried to call you,” Luke says in a barely audible voice, shifting around a tiny bit. “I don’t know if you got my messages…”

“I lost my cellphone when I was in hospital,” Craig answers. “I never got your messages. I would have called you if I did.” 

“I tried to go and see you, but you moved.” 

Taffy is being very gentle with him, and doesn’t want to tell him about the terminally ill ex. Not yet. 

“I was staying with an old friend,” he explains. “I couldn’t walk too well when I got out.” 

Luke nods; he looks exhausted, and very pale. There are still a couple of powdery smears of blood across his chest. 

“I should let you get some sleep,” Craig says quietly. 

Luke just stares at him, his head almost slumped on the pillow. He looks at Taffy for a long time. 

“I really missed you,” Luke tells him with a slightly swaying heart.

Gilmore’s heart lights up like Piccadilly Circus. 

“Did you?” he asks just as softly, his heart streaked with pale green streaks of hope.

Luke nods. He can’t say much more. 

Craig studies the sad face and wonders if he should add anything. Poor Twinkie looks exhausted, beaten and exhausted. 

“Maybe I should let you get some rest,” Craig says, his heart hurting for the pale Twinkie. 

Gilmore, I say loudly, the poor thing’s just told you he’s missed you and you’re telling him you’re going? Use your bloody head, Taffy. 

Luke looks up at him, his eyes desperately sad. 

“You going?” he asks. 

“You should get some rest,” Craig says kindly.

Twinkie nods. He thinks Craig’s going because he told him he missed him. 

“Do you want me to bring you anything?” 

“You comin’ back?” Twinkie asks, his voice a little lighter, his own smears of pale green on his heart.

“If you want me to,” Craig says quickly. 

“Yeah, that’d be good.”

“Do you want me to get you anything? Pyjamas?”

Twinkie gives him an embarrassed little smile. “I haven’t got any pyjamas,” he says with the cutest face. I swear Gilmore’s heart flips over. 

“What do you wear to bed?” 

“Nothin’” Mr Free and Easy replies. Gilmore’s heart flips again. 

“Do you want to stay in the hospital gown?”  

“Not really.” 

“Tshirts?” Craig tries. 

“Yeah, I’ve got some at home…tracksuit pants..” 

“You want me to bring some in for you then?” 

“Thanks,” Twinkie nods. “You’ll come back then?” 

Craig nods. “You get some rest. I’ll come and see you tomorrow.” 

Then he doesn’t know what to do. He settles on a fairly general gesture, placing his hand and Luke’s shoulder briefly. Luke’s heart flares suddenly and he tries to sit up, but he’s handicapped by the inability to take his weight on his hands. 

“What?” Craig says, concerned, and leaning a little in towards him. 

Luke isn’t sure what to say. 

Just ask him, Twinkie. Just ask him. 

Craig leans in a little further. “What’s up?’ he asks, filled with concern. 

“You’re going to come back?” Twinkie croaks. 

Craig nods. “Only if you want me to. I won’t come if it makes you feel uncomfortable.” 

“No, I want you to,” Luke says, and moves one of his bandaged mitts up to Craig’s arm. It’s about as decisive a gesture as poor Twinkie can make; happily, Craig understands it very well. 

“Get some rest,” he whispers again, and he gently bends down and kisses Luke lightly on the side of his face – not enough to scare him, but enough to let him knows how he feels. 

Twinkie, however, is a little harder to scare these days. He lifts his arms – and it causes him fair pain to do so – to link them around Craig’s neck. Craig takes his weight immediately, neurotically careful not to bump the bandaged limbs, and sits down next to him on the bed. Luke starts to slosh again, big balls of tears running down his face. 

Craig holds him until he calms a little. Twinkie won’t budge, 

“Get some rest,” Gilmore says low, soothing, stroking the young man’s back. “Get some rest, and we can talk tomorrow.” 

Twinkie snortles a bit. Very romantic, I say from the end of the bed. 

“I’m so sorry, what I did to you,” he says, face resting on Craig shoulder, still crying. 

“It’s okay,” he says, still stoking Luke. The hospital gown gapes at the back, Gilmore is stroking the bare skin. 

They sit like this for a few seconds, and then Gilmore gently tries to ease him down. Twinkie’s having none of it. His arms hurt, but he won’t move. 

“Luke,” Taffy says, smiling to himself as patient hangs on, “Luke, you need to get to get some rest.” 

“I’m sorry. I really am.” 

Gilmore nods. “It’s okay,” he says again, trying to put the remarkably strong man down. “We can talk about it tomorrow, when you’ve had a rest. But I don’t want you to worry about it. Okay?” 

Luke nods. 

“It’s okay,” he whispers again. “It will be alright.”

Luke opens his mouth to ask something else. He hasn’t got the words for it though, and it stays trapped in his heart. 

Oh, just say it, I tell him. He’s up for anything you dish out. Just say it.

“Do you still...” Luke stops for a minute. In his heart I can see Craig, in a towelling robe, in the motel room. “Do you still feel the same about me?” he whispers. 

Gilmore doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.” 

And of course this makes Twinkie slosh some more. 

“Get some rest,” Craig says again, his heart bright and clear. “We’ve got lots of time to talk about it.” 

Luke only eases his grip because he’s shredded arms ache so. Craig wipes his face clear, stroking the tears away with the fingers of his right hand. 

“What happened to your shirt?” Twinkie asks, seeing the big slightly yellow stain on it. Gilmore’s forgotten, and has to have a look to see what indeed has happened to his shirt. He smiles when he sees the stain. 

“That’s where you threw up on me,” he says, a little glint in his eye. 

Twinkie sloshes a bit more. “Sorry,” he says again. 

“Doesn’t matter. I’ve just bought a load of new shirts,” Gilmore says confidently. 

And not one of them’s checked, I tell Luke. 

Luke smiles at him through his tears, and then remembers something important. 

“My mum,” he says, a little panic stricken. 

“It’s okay,” Craig soothes again, lightly touching his head. “Gina’s calling her.” 

They both mull over this a bit, and smile slightly at each other. The pain and shock are starting to hit Twinkie properly now; his eyes are gazing slightly, his body feels heavy and still. 

“Get some rest,” Gilmore says again, and leans in to kiss his forehead. Luke, even in his growing stupor, is now clear in his heart. He tilts his head just in time and catches Gilmore’s mouth with his own. 

It’s a quick wet kiss, but it steals over their both their hearts, and sets so many things in place for each of them. It makes me smile. 

“You want to go with him?” a voice besides me asks. 

I turn around and see a nurse who is covered with a grid, head to toe, of orange veins. 

“Electrocuted,” she says, a bit disgusted. “Downstairs. They only found me about ninety minutes ago. 

She looks amazing, like someone has embroidered her all over.  I can’t stop staring. 

“Fried along my nerve endings,” she tells me. “It really hurts, but at least it’s quick. You want to go with him?” She indicates Gilmore, who is resting his face on the top of Luke’s tired head.

“Well, I do, but..,”

“Well, off you go. Attempted suicide, isn’t he?” 

“Blades and pills,” I tell her. 

“Poor baby.” She has genuine compassion in her voice, and it fills me with confidence. “I’m good with suicides. I’ll watch him for you tonight. Is that his boyfriend?”

“He will be soon, I hope,” I say. I like the nurse. She’s been a big girl, luscious, tall and capable. Greek, I think. That nice sandy hair and olive skin.

“He looks okay. Funny thing, with suicides. It sounds like a cliche, that it’s a call for help, but that’s just what it is, especially with the razors and knives. Once they make the call, and everyone answers, they’re okay.” She looks at Luke with a professional eye. “He seems okay.” 

“How can you tell?” 

“I just read his chart as the nurse wrote it up.” She smiles at me. “Why’d he do it?” 

Where do I start? “Gay, married, confused.” 

She understands. “Cute boyfriend!” she says of Craig, who has watched the exhausted Luke slump off to sleep and, kissing him once more, left. “Quick, catch him up. I’ll look after – what’s his name again?” 

“Luke,” I tell her. 

“I’ll look after Luke. Bye!” 

And she sits down in the chair Craig was sitting in, looking at Luke’s wavy heart.   

*********************

The Inspector is giving Craig a lift home; I sit in the back seat. I so love not having to wear a seatbelt. 

“So the doctor said they’re going to keep him for a few days,” she tells Craig. “They say he’s alright – blood loss was the main problem, but they got him in time. Apparently giving him the blood is the delicate bit – they have to give it to him bit by bit, otherwise it can bring on a cardiac arrest.” 

Craig goes pale. “What about his liver?” 

“He threw up most of the tablets, and they pumped the rest out, so the paracetamol won’t be a problem, but they’re not giving him any pain relief until tomorrow, and no food, until they’re sure it’s clear.” 

They’re silent for a second, both thinking about Luke’s liver. 

“Can I get the keys to his place from you? I said I’d pick him up some clean clothes,” Gilmore asks when they pull up outside his home.  

“Sure,” Gina says, fossicking in that enormous bag. (What do women keep in their bags? I’m half tempted to follow her home and suggest to her that she cleans it out, just to see what’s in there.)

“Here,” she says, handing him a pink key case. “Do you want a lift?” 

“I’ll take my car,” Taffy tells her. “Thanks anyway.” 

 Something’s on her mind. She wants to ask about Luke. “Was he pleased to see you?” 

Craig keeps his calm face in place, but his heart flutters. 

“I think so,” he says. Oh, Taffy, ‘fess up, you big girl. You had to peel him off you. 

“Good,” she says, wanting more information but too scared to ask. “Well, I’m off home.” Then she remembers something very important. “Oh! I spoke to his mother. She’s coming home tomorrow morning.”

“How was she?” Gilmore’s heart and face flicker with concern. 

“You can imagine,” Gina says. “Distraught, babbling.” She takes a deep breath. “I said I’d meet her at her place early tomorrow afternoon.” 

Craig nods. You’d better get over there now, if you want to rifle through Twinkie’s knicker drawer, I tell Craig. 

“I might you see you tomorrow, then.” 

“Good luck with your new job meeting tomorrow morning,” Gina says, and in her heart she really means it. 

Oh! The office! We’re going to into the office for a meeting. I’d forgotten about that. So had Craig, apparently. Once more Luke’s wiped his heart clean. 

“Oh, yeah. Thanks.” He smiles at her. “I’ll tell you all about it.” 

“Look forward to it,” she smiles. 

************************

It’s tempting, isn’t it, the thought of going through someone’s room, looking at their possessions. Especially if you’re in love with them. 

I’m eagerly waiting to see where Taffy will start. He’s standing in Luke’s room, staring at the congealed blood at the floor. 

Instead of rummaging through drawers, he makes his way through the house, groping at walls for light switches, until he finds the laundry. 

What’s he up to? 

He fills a bucket with cold water and goes back to where Luke tore himself open, gets on his knees and, using the shredded floral sheet, carefully and respectfully mops up every last drop of blood.  He has to change the water three times. The curious thing, he doesn’t tip the bloody water down the drain, but takes it outside into the hot evening air and tips into the small patch of garden, over the soil. Taffy won’t put any trace of his man down a drain. 

He sponges the wooden parquetry floor until there’s no more blood. Tiny traces of Luke’s blood have settled around the cuticles of his nails; he scrubs them clean in the pink bathroom with a pink nailbrush. 

He leaves the ugly little knife until last, wrapping it up in copy of Now magazine he found in the lounge, then wraps it again in what’s left of the sheet. He puts it with his car keys so he remembers to take it with him.

He strips the rest of the bed, salvages the linen not stained with blood, and takes them to the washing machine. He chooses the regular cycle. 

Then, with a bit poking around, he finds Mrs Ashton’s stash of pink bed sheets in an overstocked linen closet and makes Luke’s bed with clean sheets. 

You would never guess, as Taffy tucks in the sheets and settles the duvet over the bed, that anything untoward had happened in that room today. 

The whole time his heart is blank, just the large cherry light alone here in the empty house. 

When he’s finished, Taffy looks at the bed for a long time. He starts to think of Luke, alone and miserable in the bed for however many nights. For some reason, it reminds him of me, not when I was sick, but when he first came home from hospital with me.

His face is so sad. So much illness around him.

Taffy sits there for a few seconds, looking at his clean hands. I sit down next to him, and for the first time since I died I really miss not being able to touch him. He could use a bit of a cuddle now. 

Come on Craig, I say. Mr Nudie over at the hospital can’t sit around in a green gown for the next week. Let’s find him some clothes. 

Still he sits there, looking at his hands. 

Come on Craig. He’s going to be all right. There’s a lovely nurse sitting with him, his mother will be home tomorrow – and he was so relieved to see you. He’s got so much to tell you. 

He really needs you. 

Taffy seems to be thinking about this, how much Luke needs him. He’s worried he can’t look after him.

Well, I tell him, you’ve come this far with him. A couple of gashes on his hands should be a snack after the wedding. 

He smiles to himself and eases up slowly, mindful of the dull hurt in his knee.

My Taffy is so respectful, so very careful as he sorts through the surprisingly neat drawers. Luke’s a bigger poof than either of us has ealized; those drawers are fanatically tidy. 

Craig finds a few tshirts, a couple of pairs of tracksuit pants, and makes a small neat pile on the bed. Then he sees the pile of cds and mp3s, and looks around, checking to see if Luke has a personal player. Can’t see anything. 

Before he go Taffy takes one more look at the room –the small haphazard collection of belongings clearly shifted hurriedly from the marital home – and then he leaves the house in darkness. 

He stops once on the way home, outside a large factory where there are four large industrial bins. Luke’s knife is going to disappear amongst the garbage of London for all time.

********************

Craig’s tired when he climbs to bed. It’s nearly one o clock; he’s got that meeting tomorrow morning.

He falls asleep with a heart full of Luke. 

  

**Chapter 13**

 

“Mr Gilmore?” 

Taffy’s wearing new trousers, a new shirt, a head full of clean deceptively neat hair and a shy, nervous heart, icy with fear. 

We’re standing in the foyer of the Human Resources department of Scotland Yard.  A rather animated young woman in a smart trouser suit and a cheery taupe coloured heart has come to take Craig to the meeting. 

 Two other people are at the meeting, people with whom Taffy who will be working. 

After only a few minutes I can see why he is depressed about the job. 

It’s horribly dull. Taffy will read the copies of the six monthly staff evaluations of junior officers from the Yard every month. He’ll sign them, and make any recommendations and or suggestions that relate to the training or development of the officer in question, and then pass them on. 

His heart is already chrome with boredom. Taffy thinks it’s a dead end job. 

I agree with him. I couldn’t imagine anything he’d be less suited to, except perhaps hairdressing. His stripes glow sad and lonely in his heart. 

The lively woman with the taupe heart gives Craig a sheaf of boring looking documents to read before he starts in a fortnight. Craig smiles at her with as much effort as he can muster while his heart clouds over. 

“Thank you,” he says as sincerely as he can as he’s leaving. “I look forward to working with you.”

Cheer up, I say as we walk down through the large atrium. It’s a job. You still get that pension too. You can save up and take Luke on fantastic holidays. We never got to Prague; you and Twinkie can go and wonder the little streets there. And you can save for the house you’ve always wanted. 

“Craig Gilmore!” 

A tall grey man in full copper regalia stops Craig just before he reaches the door. 

Love your suit, I say sweetly.

Taffy turns around and smiles warmly when he recognises the face. After a few minutes of talking with this man, all the chrome has melted from Taffy’s heart. He makes Craig an offer he can’t refuse. 

“How’s he doing?” 

The ghost nurse is hovering near Twinkie’s bed, looking at the canula in his foot. 

“Well, he was a little sad early this morning but he’s okay!” she says cheerily. “Ah! The boyfriend’s back. He’s been in his heart all night. Here,” she says excitedly, “Watch his heart! This is fascinating!” 

I do as I’m told. As soon as Gilmore approaches with the bundle of clean clothes, Luke’s heart not only grows brighter, but the surface starts to shimmy. It seems to be covered with dozens of little tentacles that move gently, as if it’s submerged in a warm slight current. 

“I saw this last night,” I tell her. “I’ve not seen it before. It’s like sea plants.” 

“I worked out what it is,” she says. “He’s intuitive. He reacts and responds to people’s feelings. I’ve been watching him with people all morning. Whenever doctors or nurses come to speak with him, his heart tunes in!” 

Intuitive?

“He doesn’t sound – you know, from what I’ve heard – as if he’s so intuitive.” I say doubtfully as I watch Luke’s wriggly heart. 

“Maybe he doesn’t trust his own judgement yet,” the nurse points out.

“Hello,” Craig says softly. He is relieved, for Luke definitely looks a little better this morning. His coppery eyes are light and absorbent; his heart starts to sway towards Craig. 

“Hi!” It hardly bears mentioning that Twinkie’s delighted to see him. 

“I bought you some clothes,” Taffy tells him. “I had to guess what you’d wear.  I hope these are alright.” 

“Thanks!” Luke says, more bright than I’ve ever seen him. He looks quite endearing. 

“Have you had a shower?” Craig asks as he folds the clothes in to the small bureau besides Luke’s bed.

“I’m not allowed to yet,” he tells him, struggling to get up without his hands. “They want to keep the bandages in place for a few more days.” He looks at Craig, searching his face, his heart moving towards him. “I had a sponge bath this morning.” 

“Was that fun?” Taffy says with a gentle smile, settling in the seat at the side of the bed. 

“Not really,” Luke smiles. “Better than nothing, I suppose.” He’s trying to sit up a bit, which is not easy given he can’t use is arms or hands. 

“Here,” Craig says, quickly standing up lifting him into a more comfortable position.

Luke latches on to him like a limpet. 

“It’s very sweet,” the nurse says.

“I’m Sean,” I say to her as Taffy gently eases the prostrate Luke up the bed. 

“Electra,” she tells me. “And don’t make any jokes about me being electrocuted.” 

It hadn’t occurred to me until she said it. Electra the electrocuted. Tee hee hee!

“So what’s with this pair?” she asks in a brisk, straightforward way. “Are they an item or what?”

“Still ‘or what’ at this stage,” I answer. “Luke’s a bit confused.”

“How confused?”

“Kissed the Sarge and made him cry. Married-a-girl kind of confused.”

Electra nods, looking at Luke’s bandaged arms. 

“That’s pretty confused,” she agrees.

Craig and Luke have already started talking, their faces are tilted towards one another, attentive and close. 

“I went to see you a few weeks ago,” Luke is saying, “but you’ve moved?” 

Craig is quiet for a bit. “Sean was sick,” he explains. “I moved him with him after I was discharged.”

Twinkie’s heart changes colour, bleak and navy. “Oh,” he says, assuming Craig and I are a couple once more. Keep calm, Luke, I tell him. Perfectly reasonable explanation coming up. 

“Are you back together?” he asks, trying to sound unaffected, but his voice is a dead giveaway. The misery on his face is pitiful.

Craig shakes his head, and he looks Luke in the eye. “He was very sick. He died a couple of weeks ago. I just stayed with him and looked after him.” 

This sparks a couple of surprising reactions in Twinkie. First, his heart goes coral again, and then it takes on that strange wavy texture, open and receptive. Then heavy tears flush his eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” he says suddenly. Twinkie! Darling, I never knew you cared! 

“Don’t get upset,” Craig says, quickly moving in and then wondering where exactly to put his comforting hand. “He was really sick.” He touches Twinkie briefly on the bandages on his right arm, and then moves his hand away quickly, as if he’s caught himself in time. 

Luke, however, is still very emotional and unstrung. My death affects him pretty badly. 

“I wished I’d known,” Luke sniffs. “I would have liked to help you.” 

I don’t know where that came from, but I appreciate the thought. 

So does Craig. “I just figured I should leave you alone,” he tells Twinkie. “You know... I thought that’s what you wanted.” Craig wonders how much he should say; Luke is so brittle. “Don’t cry. “ He lightly strokes the side of Luke’s face. “You know I would have come and see you much sooner if I knew you were this bad.” 

“I didn’t know how to contact you,” Luke explains in a creaking voice. “I couldn’t find you, I thought you must have...” and the tears keep coming. 

“Oh, don’t cry,” Craig says softly, standing up and reaching for the hospital issues besides Luke’s bed. He carefully wipes Luke’s face clean, and waits for him to calm down before he sits down. 

“I’m a bit…” Luke tries to think what he is. 

Emotional, I call from the end of the bed. 

“Emotional,” Luke says with a tiny self-deprecating smile. 

“I know,” Craig agrees gently. “It’s okay. Tell me, what do the doctors say?” 

Luke looks a little shamefaced. 

“I have to see the staff psychiatrist. Apparently everyone who makes a suicide attempt has to.” Luke looks to see Craig’s reaction. Craig, of course, is listening closely. “Then I have to see the police counsellor.” 

“Well, that won’t hurt,” Craig tells him. “It’ll be good for you to talk to someone who can help you.” He says this with a kind smile and looks at the heavily bandaged limbs. “What about your arms? Are they okay?”

Luke looks at his wrapped paws and nods. 

“They’re fine, the specialist’s coming around later, but the registrar thinks they’re fine.” Luke holds his arms out.  “I did a pretty shoddy job,” he says, a little ruefully, a little embarrassed. “I missed the arteries, but I cut a lot of vessels.” Twinkie and Taffy stare at the swaddled mitts. “They’re keeping them bandaged up for a couple of days. They’re not going to change them ‘til Friday.” 

“Why?”

“Not all the cuts are stitched,” Luke explains. “The shallow ones are just taped up so they’re giving them a chance to heal.” 

The both look at the thickly wrapped arms again. 

“I feel so stupid,” Luke says eventually. 

Craig reaches out and tentatively touches the exposed finger tips with his own.

“Don’t. There’s no point,” he says, serious and concerned. “You were under a lot of stress, and from what Gina tells me you put up with a lot in the last few weeks.” 

“I bought it on myself,” he tells Craig dully. 

“Well, that’s open for debate. And even if you did, that doesn’t some how make it magically less stressful to cope with.” 

Luke is silent for a moment, then returns and looks at Craig. “I should never have got married. I wished I’d done what I wanted to and stayed there with you at the hotel.” 

Taffy’s heart lights up. “Is that what you wanted?” 

“Yeah, it was,” Luke says, completely stony faced, staring back at his bandages. He speaks quietly, as if he’s sharing a secret.  “It was good, that night, wasn’t it?” 

Taffy smiles back. “It was pretty special,” he agrees. Luke heart swirls with hopeful green and a sort of clear glaze. 

They are still touching fingertips, a little shy as images of that night swish through their hearts. 

“I just wish I’d been smarter,” Luke sighs. “I jut made such a mess of everything.”   

“It’s done now,” Craig assures him.  He’s reminded of Gina. “Speaking of smarter, has Gina been to see you this morning?” 

Luke gives him a cute smirk (he does a very good cute smirk) and Gilmore’s heart flips again. 

“Did his heart just flip?” Electra asks.

“She came in this morning,” Luke answers. “My mum’s coming back today, and I think she wanted to make sure I wasn’t hysterical before she saw me.” 

Craig grins at him. Now Luke heart’s flipping. You’re a pair of hopeless poofs, I tell them both. Electra is agog at this tentative interaction. 

“Their hearts keep flipping!” she laughs. “That’s so cute! I didn’t know that happened to men.” 

“We’re a mystery,” I tell her slyly. 

Then Luke remembers something, and a sad shadow comes over his face. 

“What?” Craig asks. 

“My mum. She’s going to see the room.” He closes his eyes. “There would have been blood everywhere.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Craig says shortly. 

“No, she’s really squeamish about blood,” Twinkie says, suddenly panicky and distressed again.

“It’s okay,” Craig soothes. “I cleaned it up last night when I got your clothes. She won’t see anything.” 

Luke just looks at him. I’m about to launch in to a spiel about true love, but I don’t have to. Luke knows the value of that gesture, and he knows how hard it would have been for Craig to clean up. He strokes Craig’s hand with his fingertips. 

“Thank you.” He looks straight into Craig’s eyes for the first time. “I could never work it out with you,” he says quietly. 

“Work what out?” Craig says gently. 

“Why you were so nice to me.” 

Well, you’re pretty bloody thick then, Twinkie, I tell him decisively. 

Gilmore slowly strokes the pink tips of Luke’s fingers, one by one, idly touching them with his own fingers. Then he looks at Luke, a little hopeful, a little resigned. 

“I’m working it out,” Luke whispers. His heart is bright and full. 

“Plenty of time,” Craig says, “plenty of time and no pressure.” They’re quiet again, looking at their hands together. Gilmore takes a breath. 

“I’m serious Luke,” he says, and his face is grave. “I’m not here to come on to you, or to make you feel in anyway that I expect a relationship. You understand that, don’t you?” 

“You don’t want a relationship?” Luke asks anxiously. 

Craig smiles. “Well, yes, I do,” he says, a bit shy, (“He did it again!” Electra says when Luke’s heart flips) “but that’s not what I’m saying. I meant that I don’t have that expectation, not anymore. And if you think you might want to get involved with me, I want you to take your time. I don’t want you to think you have to,” he stops, and reorders his thoughts. “There’s no hurry. Think about it, think about what you want.”

Luke is stroking the thick ropes of veins on the surface of Gilmore’s hands. “I’ve been thinking about it for nine months,” he says, not looking up. 

“Nine months?” 

Nine months? We’re both stumped. 

“What happened nine months ago?” Electra asks. She’s enthralled, as if she’s watching a really good movie. 

“Nine months. Since I kissed you in your office,” Twinkie almost whispers.

Gilmore’s heart flips again; Electra almost applauds. 

Why then, you dipwit, did you get married? I ask him. 

Taffy, though, is far more merciful than I am; he just smiles and slips one of his hands over the top of Luke’s. 

“Have you got a new job?” Luke asks after a few seconds. He’s looking at Craig’s office clothes. “Gina said you’d been pensioned out because of your leg.” 

Tell him your good news, Taffy! 

“What’s the good news?” Electra asks excitedly.

Taffy tells him about the boring job at the yard, and the bleak prospect of getting back into the force in the near future. Luke, to my great surprise, is incredibly supportive on this. He goes over the job details with Craig, points out the positive bits to him, encourages him in every way he can. Meanwhile his heart is swaying powerfully the whole time, the little tentacles all reaching to Craig.

“See?” Electra says. “He’s tuned into Craig.”

She’s right, there’s no other description for it. Twinkie’s interesting heart antennae is tuned in to Taffy. 

Craig continues his good news. 

“But when I was leaving,  I met one of the CIs from Hendon this morning, one of the uniform teaching when I was there,”

“Who?” Luke asks. 

“CI Albright?”

“Brighty!” Luke says, and they both laugh. “He was a nice bloke, he was in charge of the recruiting process when I was there.” 

“He was an Inspector when I went through,” Craig tells him. “He used to take us on procedure.” 

“Are they soldiers?” Electra asked. 

“Coppers,” I clarify. 

“So what’s Brighty doing?” Luke is very interested, his heart leaning towards Craig, who is as vibrant as he will get in a conversation. They are really bonding on this. 

“Well, you’ve heard the Equality and Diversity Team in the Home Office.”

Luke nods, all ears. 

“Apparently, there’s a lot of bad feeling within some of the outer London stations, and the regional centres, not only with racism but discrimination and what could be seen as unfair work practices. The papers are going on about the crime rate, and the failure of increased police presence, so there’s a move to approach the whole problem from within the force.” 

Luke’s listening, hanging on every word. “I read about that in one of the Met newsletters – they’re expanding the unit at the Home Office, aren’t they?”

Taffy nods. “They’re looking to appoint more senior offices to the unit itself.  Brighty was one of a few senior officers who was asked to put in a proposal, and the Home Office have chosen his.” 

“What’s his proposal?”

“It’s a big one. He thinks the Met should be working on not just correct grievance procedures, but that see fair work practices are in place too. The idea is to get the force working together more consistently, so they can actually police more effectively. ” 

“Fair work practices?” Luke asks. 

“Like proper training, and career training that is available to all officers.” 

“But isn’t it?” 

“Well, no. If you’ve got three kids it’s hard to do weekend work, it’s really hard to do night shifts, and it’s hard to do training courses that start at eight in the morning. So a lot of parents – mainly mothers – miss out on the kind of training and skills you get on night time obbos and raids. Unfair work practice.” 

Luke’s nodding. It’s making sense. 

“And there’s other things. A lot of the black officers feel left out of the social side of things at work, Muslim officers couldn’t go for a drink down at the pub,”

“Why not?” Luke asks. 

“Muslims don’t drink. Strict Muslims won’t go where alcohol is served. And you know the kinds of stuff you can find out down the pub, and you know that a relief will, well, build up rapport over a few drinks.”

“Yeah, right,” Luke says. “So are you going to make everyone go for a cup of coffee after work?” His eyes are bright and naughty. The Gilmore heart flips a little again to Electra’s delight. 

“No, what Brighty wants to do is to train the officers not only to work with the public, but to work with each other. So cultural and social sensitivity courses. Give them a better understanding of each other. So someone like Taviner wouldn’t think it was fair play to call some one a poofter or a Paki. And the obvious place to start with that kind of training is…,” 

“At Hendon!” Luke says with him. 

“Right!” Craig is so happy to see him animated.  “The idea is that there would be an initial series of classes at Hendon, and then on-going schemes within particular nicks depending on the area and the coppers. So in London you’d have the whole gamut of training, in regional areas you’d concentrate on Sikh or Muslim or the main cultural population in a region.”

“What about the mothers?” Luke is really interested in this. Images of his own mum are in his heart. 

“Well, there’s a core to the whole project. Parents, gays, people with disabilities - basically covering the social issues that affect every group in a community. And within individual nicks the actual project would work along side the EEO office to make sure grievance procedures were in place, and that complaints about racism or discrimination or whatever were sorted out, you know, isolated and conciliated before official complaints were made.” 

“So what will you do exactly?” 

Taffy’s eyes are keen. “Bright’s got the funding to increase the unit and set up the training, so now he needs extra staff. It’ll start with the courses at Hendon, in conjunction with training in a couple of stations in East London where’s there’s a concentration of black officers. He needs three officers to work with him. He’s got another Sergeant, a woman who’s just come back from maternity leave, he’s got an Inspector who was on stress leave after being involved in a shooting, and he asked me if I wanted to be the third!” 

“Really!” Luke is so happy for him. “So you’d be at Hendon!”

“Well, if I get it, I would be for the start – just for the first couple of weeks to watch the course under way, and to see how the recruits go. Then I’d be at the Home Office for a few months, then I’d get stationed in one the trial stations, as the supervising officer for the program.” 

“Not on official duties as a Sarge,” Luke clarifies. 

“No, but I’d still have my rank, I’d be in uniform and I’d be expected to supervise the relief in that respect.” Craig tips his shoulders a bit. “It’s an admin job, basically, but it’s police work, and,” he leans forward to Luke here, “it’s a damn site better than signing bloody evaluation forms at Scotland Yard.” 

“It sounds great,” Luke says. He’s very impressed. “So, what happens now?”

“Well, Brighty’s got the people he wants, but it has to be advertised internally, and I’d have to go for the position. But the idea is that the positions would be for experienced uniformed officers who, for one reason or another, can’t do regular shifts.” 

“But you’d be back in uniform?” Shots of Craig in his uniform are clear in Twinkie’s heart. It’s clear that he holds Craig’s rank as dearly as Craig himself.

Stripes light up in Taffy’s heart. 

“I’d have to take the Sergeant’s exam again, because I’ve been terminated, but it’s a formality, really.” 

Luke smiles at him, cheerful and bright, and touches his hand again.

“This is so great!” His smile is genuine and heartfelt. “I was so disappointed for you when I heard you’d been pensioned out…I really wanted to find you. I know what it means to you.” He looks at Craig with real affection. 

“Thanks.” 

They talk about the job some more. Luke’s really interested in it, and he’s really enjoying taking to Craig about work.

“I don’t get it,” I say to Electra as they natter. “I’ve been following Luke for more than a week now, and he’s been a mess, like, clinically depressed. How can he get so better so quickly?”

“It’s very common,” she says. “He’s not better, far from it.” She stops to work out how to explain it to me, her electric nervous system vibrant. It’s so hard not to look at it. 

 “Go on,” I say. I would never have guessed that Twinkie could be so complex.

“He’s depressed but not chemically depressed. He doesn’t have a mental disorder, he has reactive depression. What they used to call a nervous breakdown.  Actually,” she says, taking on a thoughtful, professional tone, “ I’d say his main problem is the same as most young gay men – he wants to talk, but can’t find anyone to talk to, and he’s not quite sure what he wants to say.” She sighs then continues. 

“They get so sick of thinking about what depresses them that they convince themselves no one else wants to hear either. Then they get consumed by depression, ashamed that they can’t cope with it, and can barely talk at all. Once they stop talking, that’s when the problems start.”  

We look at Twinkie and Taffy discussing work. Luke’s uncertain about going back to the force, Taffy’s work shopping it with him, going through the options. 

“All he needed, really, was someone to talk to.” 

“His mother tried to talk to him, I saw her.”

“Not quite the same, is it? I think there was only one person he really wanted to talk to. He had a lot to say even last night, and he’s probably got a lot more to tell Craig. And I think he’s probably really in love and had no idea what to do,” Electra notes rightly. “I mean, look at him. He’s better now just since Craig’s got here.” 

We watch them both, chatting and beaming into each other’s faces. “He was sad this morning when he woke up, teary,” she continues. “He’ll be pretty unpredictable for a while yet.”

“Do you think he’ll try to hurt himself again?” I ask her. She doesn’t give me the answer I want.

“Who knows? I’ve seen suicide attempts wake up in the pit of misery, take months to get over their depression, and then can’t remember why they even wanted to die. Then again, I’ve seen suicides cheerful and happy when they’re discharged, then two weeks later they’re downstairs in the morgue waiting for the coroner.” 

“So he could try it again?” 

“It’s impossible to say. But I will say that I think he’d be hard pressed to try with Papa Bear there looking out for him.” 

They’re talking about Luke’s last month at work now, Craig tiptoeing around it with him gently, slowing unpacking the wads of misery and hurt from Luke’s heart. 

There’s a sharp footstep down the hall out side, then the half-drawn curtain is gently pulled aside. 

“Luke?” 

It’s Mother Twinkie, looking very sweet in a pair of pink capri pants and a pink floral smock and pale pink kitten heels that snap when she walks. Inspector Girl Germs is with her in uniform. She looks less sweet. 

Luke looks up at his mother, a little hesitant, pale. Craig attempts to slip his hand from under Luke’s but I am delighted to report that Twinkie holds fast with his bandaged limb and keeps it in place. 

Mother and son look at each other awkwardly.

“Sorry, mum,” is the first thing he says. 

She looks at him for a second more and then seamlessly breaks down into tears. Craig immediately stands up, Gina wraps a nice snug arm around her shoulders and Luke’s heart is foggy with misery and regret. 

She tips forward slightly to kiss her son then sees the big bandages, which makes her cry more. She fishes out one of her little floral hankies from her pocket while Gilmore very deftly choreographs her into the chair. (I think he’s worried she’ll bump Luke’s sore arms.) 

“I’ll go,” he whispers to Luke. 

Twinkie looks up to him with alarmed eyes. He doesn’t know what to say, looking between Craig and his distraught mother.  

“I’ll drop in tomorrow morning,” he says softly. They stare at each other longingly.

“Take care.” 

“Bye,” Luke says, looking after him. He looks at his mum, and his heart grows heavy, the little tentacles all tangled up. 

“I’m okay,” he tells her weakly. 

*******************

Why are we here, Taffy? 

Taffy and I are upstairs in Laura Ashley on Regent Street. I have no idea what he is doing – currently he is looking wallpapers. 

Darling, why Laura Ashley? 

He moves over to the fabrics, and starts looking at the bed linen. Pink florals, ribbons and little daisies, a nice plain white with great red poppies – since when have you liked florals? 

I can’t see it in his heart yet; he’s busy concentrating. A pretty young woman with a big peachy heart, resplendent in navy blue trousers and a pale yellow tshirt, approaches him. 

“Can I help you?” she asks Taffy nicely. She likes horse riding and watercolours. It makes for a pretty heart. 

“I’m fine, thank you,” he says in his polite voice. 

It takes him ten minutes before he settles on a very pretty romantic of fat pink roses. I rather like it myself –it’s a photographic print so from a distance it would look as if your bed was covered with tea roses. 

Are you hoping to entice Luke to your bed with roses? I ask. 

He chooses sheets and matching pillowcases. 

I’ve never seen you buy pink, I say. Pink? Why pink? 

Pink. 

Oh Taffy, you sneaky bugger.

He leaves the store with the big bottle green bag, very pleased with himself. 

 

**Chapter 14**

 

Now what? Are we on an obbo? I ask Taffy hopefully. 

We are parked down the road from Luke’s house. Patient Taffy has just watched Gina bring Mrs Ashton home and watches now as Gina leaves. 

He’s shy about doing this, but my Taffy is not the kind of man who ruins people’s good sheets on purpose. 

He knocks on the door gently, very nervous. 

Red rimmed Mother Twinkie lets him in, confused as she watches this huge man walk through her house. 

***********************

“You didn’t have to do this,” she says gratefully. She’s actually very touched – the sheets are beautiful. There are roses in her heart. 

“I wanted to,” he says simply. Gilmore logic.

She has so many questions for him. 

“You worked with Luke, didn’t you?” They sitting at the kitchen table together and she’s made a pot of tea. 

“For a few months,” he agrees. 

“I can’t believe he’s done this,” she says, trying to smile, exhausted. “I mean, he’s been so depressed lately, but it’s just not like him...” and tears come to her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she says, sniffling. “I just  - I should have known. I can’t believe he was this unhappy and I had no idea. I mean, I knew he was depressed, but I thought he’d get over it, I thought...” 

And the tears come again. 

“He’s had a really hard year,” Craig says reasonably.

“It’s my fault,” she says finally. 

Taffy shakes his handsome head. He’s looking at the pink cups and saucers. Get used to it, I tell him, your new mother-in-law loves pink. 

“It’s not your fault. Nobody knew he was this bad,” Taffy assures her. 

She pours the tea, and I do believe it is orange pekoe, rich and rusty smelling. I can smell the paper the tea was wrapped in, the tannin that stains the brew, the sunlight the leaves dried in. It’s heavenly. 

“Do you want a mug?” she says when she sees large Craig manoeuvring his way around the delicate little cup. 

Oh, he’s a poof, I tell her. He loves chintzy cups. 

He hesitates, a little wary of appearing fussy, but he can’t stomach the weeny little cup. “A mug would be great, thank you.” 

“I just can’t believe that I didn’t see the signs,” she says wearily as Craig drinks from a big mug that is covered with pink owls. “I mean, I’m his mother. I should have known. I just kept asking what was wrong, and all the time he was planning this.” 

“It’s not your fault,” Taffy tells her again over the pink owls. 

“You found him, didn’t you?”

Craig nods. The awful image of Luke bleeding and crying comes up in his heart. 

“It was good of you to clean up,” she says, not looking up. 

“It was nothing,” Taffy says quietly. 

“You know, when Gina mentioned you the other day, I had no idea who you were. I didn’t remember Luke mentioning anyone called Craig.” She smiles at Craig, whose heart has gone a little blue. “Then I worked out, this morning, when I was driving home.” She puts her pretty cup back in the saucer. 

“Sarge,” she smiles. “He used to speak about Sarge all the time when he first started back at Sun Hill. Sarge did this, Sarge said that.” 

The blue fades on Gilmore’s heart fast. 

Mrs Ashton shrugs again. “I should have worked it out. One minute he’s here, and he seems fine, back in the force, settling in, next minute he’s getting married to some woman I’d never even heard him mention. I mean,” - she looks up at Craig here - “I thought it was strange - Luke’s had two girlfriends that I know about, one when he was in high school, and one when he was at Hendon.” 

She stops and thinks about this. Craig, meanwhile, is flicking through images in his heart, trying to imagine what his predecessors were like. 

“I thought he was shy. I didn’t think he was,”- she stops again and bites her lip. “Well, I did, actually,” and she smiles at Craig, embarrassed.  She can’t say gay yet. “I thought he might be. But he just never showed any interest in being with anyone. He never talked about anyone special, he didn’t really seem interested in relationships. Not that he’d tell me, though.”  She pours herself another cup of tea then tops up Taffy’s mug.  While she’s thinking, Luke all over heart, she wipes her face gently with her free hand. 

“To be honest, I never could work out what he saw in Kerry. She just wasn’t Luke’s type. I didn’t think so anyway. Too….” but she doesn’t know what Kerry was, or at least she’s not prepared to say, and she leaves the sentence hanging, as if she’s uncertain.

Her heart says different. Mrs Ashton doesn’t like Kerry at all, not a whit.

Craig has no idea how to respond, but it doesn’t matter, because Mrs Ashton has plenty more on her mind. 

“I was amazed when he said they were getting married,” she continues as she grows confident.  “I told him to wait. And, you know, I know he felt the same way. I know he didn’t want to marry her.” Her eyes fill and shine again. “I don’t know why he did this. If you hadn’t come yesterday…,” 

But it is too hard to for her to continue. 

Craig sits next her, gentle, listening carefully. 

“He never was interested in girls, not really,” she says again, as if she is clarifying this for herself. “He wasn’t at all concerned when he broke up with Sondra,” 

“Sondra?” Taffy asks. 

“His girlfriend in high school. She’s a vet nurse now, I used to play tennis with her mum, before my back started to get bad.  I mean, they went out for quite a few months, I think she threw him over for someone else. I don’t know, he never said. But he didn’t seem concerned. I was thinking about this, this morning, you know, he was more upset when Mr Piggy died than he was with Sondra.” 

Who the hell is Mr Piggy?

Gilmore has a very restrained, polite face he uses when he needs to make further enquiries and doesn’t want to break down laughing. He used to use it with me sometimes, when we were mucking around. He is using it now with Mrs Ashton. 

“Mr Piggy?” he checks nicely. 

She laughs gently. “I’m rambling now, sorry.” She has a sip of tea. “Mr Piggy was Luke’s hamster. One of the neighbours’ gave it to him when he was about five, after I finally threw his no-good father out.” She smiles. Clearly Mr Piggy brings back happy memories. “He lived for five years, which is supposed to be long time for a hamster. Luke was devastated when he died.”  She stops and takes another sip of tea. 

Craig is still wearing his polite face. In his heart he’s trying to conjure up an image of a hamster, but he’s stuck on a rabbit. Guinea pig, Taffy, I chide. Little stumpy rodent thing, not a bunny rabbit. 

Mrs Ashton sighs again. 

“Are you going to go back and see him today?” 

“I don’t know,” Taffy says honestly. Suddenly there’s hamster scuttling over his heart. “Are you?”

“I’ll drop into night, just after dinner.” This reminds her of something. “He’s starting to get hungry again, which is good. They said he could probably have a bit of dinner tonight.” She looks at Craig carefully, smiling gently. This makes him shy, but it shouldn’t. She’s admiring him. Goodness, she’s thinking, he’s full of goodness. 

“He’s lost a lot of weight,” Craig says. “Are they giving him medication, you know, something to make him hungry?” 

Mrs Ashton sighs. “They were going to give him some valium this morning, after I left.” The thought of Luke on valium upsets her, and a few stray tears slip out. “Sorry,” she says, fishing a crumpled Liberty hankie from her pocket. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Craig assures her again. He waits until she has dabbed her eyes dry, and asks her what else the doctor said. Mrs Ashton becomes brisk and efficient for moment. 

“Not much, just that his arms should heal fine – but there’d be lots of scarring, but faint, because,” – the tears slip out again and she finished the sentence with difficulty - “because he used such a sharp knife.” 

Craig waits for her to calm down. In his heart he’s glad she didn’t have to see what a sharp knife did to Luke.

“And that he’ll have to have therapy for a couple of weeks or maybe months. Some kind of special therapy, for when you’re depressed…”

But she can’t think of what it might be. 

“Cognitive therapy?” Craig tries. 

She smiles at him, and for a fractured second she looks just like Luke. Taffy’s heart skips a little. “That’s it! What you have when you have to break bad emotional habits. That’s what Patty \- my sister - said.” 

She finishes her tea, a thought troubling her. “They were talking about putting him a sort of rest home for a few weeks.” Her face gets determined, a bit hard. “I said I’d look after him here. He needs to be with his family. He’d hate being locked up.” 

Craig is silent. He hates the idea of Luke locked up too.

“I wouldn’t have thought he’s that bad,” he counters. 

“He’s not,” she says quickly, and suddenly spills over.  “He’s gay, he’s confused, he married someone he didn’t love and he lost his little baby.” She dissolves into distraught sobs. 

Gilmore immediately moves towards her, kind and conciliatory. He spies a box of pink tissues over near the windowsill and grabs them quickly. 

“I found out about the baby from Gina. He didn’t tell me. I didn’t even know they were pregnant,” Mrs Ashton says, miserable. “And his wife, do you know what she did to him?” 

She tells him the atrocious story of Luke’s outing again. 

“I was furious when I found out. I mean, I know she was hurt, but to do that...” 

She grabs a big puffy handful of tissues. “And you know about the shooting, don’t you.” 

Craig nods. 

“No wonder…I  mean, as if anyone…” she halts, catches her breath, and sighs. “No wonder he tried to kill himself.” Then it finally eases out. “And all the time he thought he couldn’t tell me.”

Craig lets her cry. 

“Anyway,” she sniffs, “he’s eating again.” She smiles, looking at the crumpled ball of paper tissues in her hand. “Usually he eats me out of house and home. Since he left Sun Hill, he’d barely touch anything.” 

“I thought he looked like he lost weight,” Gilmore agrees. 

“I gave up trying to get him to eat. He wouldn’t eat anything, not even lasagne.” She looks up at Craig with a cute smile and again the family resemblance is so strong Craig can’t tear his eyes away. “He loves lasagne and chips. It’s what I cook for him when I want to ask him a favour or when he’s a bad mood.” 

Taffy’s storing this information away. He can make a good lasagne. I know, because he learnt it from me. He smiles at her a little shyly, nodding, encouraging her to talk. She sizes him up in that inimitable mother way, knowing she has the advantage here. She could find out a lot now. 

“Do you like to cook?” she asks tentatively, her light brown eyes still red-rimmed.

“I do,” Craig smiles. And he ain’t bad either, I assure Mother Twinkie. 

They talk briefly about this, still polite and a little formal, but after a little longer her cute lemony heart opens up like flower. She has so many questions for Craig, and she quizzes him for the next forty minutes. 

He talks with her happily. She makes fresh tea, finds a packet of McVities in the cupboard, and by the time Craig leaves he not only knows what subjects Luke took for his O levels but he has seen photographic evidence of Mr Piggy, Abbots Gardens longest living hamster. 

And all though he doesn’t know it, after talking with Taffy, Mrs Ashton feels much better about Luke than she has in months. 

******************

“How’s he going?” 

Electra’s out in the nurse’s station, listening to a nurses’ meeting. She holds her hand up to me and gives me a pleading look to let me know she’ll be with me in a moment. 

So I wait for her at Twinkie’s bedside. 

It’s about nine thirty at night. Gilmore is tucked up at home, already asleep on this very hot summer night, probably still a little weary from his stomach bug, certainly exhausted from the last few days.

Luke’s dozing too, propped up on couple of pillows, the bed inclined slightly, his bandaged hands across his chest. They’re hurting in his sleep. Small crystals of sweat glitter along the edge of his hairline. He smells a little more musty, slightly sour. Clearly the sponge baths aren’t enough in this hot muggy weather - he smells of medicines too, medicines and fresh bandages. 

“How’s it going, Twinkie?” I look at his heavily bandaged arms. “Oh! They’ve put the drip in your hand. You can get up and walk around now!” 

It’s funny, to be with him like this. While I sit and wait for Electra, I realise I’ve grown enormously fond of Luke over the last week or so. I know him better than Gilmore does, at least at this stage, and through him I’ve learnt some things about Taffy I never would have known ordinarily. 

I feel very attached to them both. It’s going to be hard when I have to go. 

“Sorry about that,” Electra says quickly. 

“I don’t know how you can sound breathless when you don’t breathe.” 

She thinks about this. “Well, I was always rushing around when I was alive,” she answers thoughtfully. “Maybe it’s habit? Anyway, I had to sit in on that – the nurses are going on strike because of me dying.”

“When?” 

“Tomorrow. A stop work for eight hours. A full shift. There’s only a skeleton team on for emergency. So you’ll have to tell his boyfriend, and make sure he’s here early. You know they’re talking about discharging him in a day or two?” 

“Really? I heard his mother say that they wanted to put him in a rest place for a while.” 

“Well, they’d like to, but she went a bit barmy at the suggestion,” Electra says. “She’s right, though, he just needs someone to look after him for a bit.” 

“Well, Craig could do that,” I say. 

“No it’s too soon.” Electra thinks carefully. “It’s too soon for him, to go straight in to a relationship. He needs to take things very slowly. And it’ll do him good, to bond a bit with his mum. Do y’understand what I mean?” 

I nod. “I’ve been with his mum this afternoon. She’s pretty sad.” 

“Exactly. It’s a mother thing. She needs to look after him a bit before she hands him over to his gorgeous boyfriend. And he has to rest, stay really calm. Best for him to go home to mum for a bit. ” Electra smiles, efficient and kind. “Didn’t your mum look after you when you were sick?”

“My mum died when I was eight.” I‘ve got this down pat, saying it with no emotion. 

“I’m so sorry! I didn’t know.”

“It’s fine,” I reassure her. 

We both watch Luke stirring a little while we think of mothers. 

“What’s your new mum like?” She says, cheery and bright, changing the subject delicately. 

“No idea,” I answer. 

Her face grows concerned. 

“What, you haven’t found anyone?” 

“No. I’ve been busy this with this pair. Should I?”

“How long have you been gone?” 

I have to think about it. “Over two weeks,” is the best I can do. 

“Sean, you have to start looking, or otherwise you’ll end up with whoever’s giving birth nearest to you when your number’s up,” Electra says gravely. 

I look at her bemused. 

“I’m serious,” she continues. “I’ve been talking with the dead up in the maternity ward. It’s a really big deal, finding your new mum.” She looks at me seriously, and I feel a bit uncomfortable.  Nurses can be very intimidating. “You have to start letting him go,” she says gently. 

“I’ve let go,” I say, and I know deep down I haven’t at all. 

“You haven’t. I can tell you’re lying.” 

“How?”

“I’m a nurse. It comes with the training,” she says briskly. “Look, you’ve still got time. Luke’s fine, the boyfriend’s fine, they’ll work it out. You can still hang around a bit until it’s time to go. But seriously, you have to find a new mum.” 

“I liked my old one,” I say petulantly. 

“Oh, sweetie,” she says. “Well, think of all the things you liked about her, and think of all the things you’d like in new mum and your new dad too. Then go find them!”

I scoff at that. My new dad.  Everything my old one wasn’t. 

“Didn’t like your dad?” she asks. 

“He didn’t like me.” 

Luke stirs, waking slightly, damp and shiny in the poor light. 

“His arms are hurting. He needs a bit of pain management. Look, while I go and get someone to look after him, you nip up to the maternity room and have a look at some of the mums there. Never know – she might be there waiting for you!”

And she’s out the door, leaving me with the moaning Luke. 

“Twinkie,” I tell him loudly, “I’m off to find a mum. Electra’s gone to find you a nurse to make your arms stop hurting. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

He’s half-asleep, sore and agitated. 

“I’ll bring Craig with me.” 

In his stupor he recognises the name and a deep, clear picture of Craig flares up over his heart. 

*******************

Don’t get me wrong. There were some very nice women up in the maternity wards – little young skinny ones, little young plump ones, beautiful dark calm ones, tiny lotus-fine Asian ones – all beautiful, all at peace with their swollen heavy bellies and their exhausted hearts. 

But she wasn’t there. No mother for me. 

One of the ghouls was, though. It’s the paramedic with the green liver. He’s sitting next to a beautiful Pakistani woman who is trying to get comfortable. 

“I’ve found me mum!” he tells me delightedly. “She’s so nice! I met her yesterday when we answered a call for a road accident. Nobody died.” He is grinning from ear to ear. “I’ll have two brothers and a sister! I was only a child. Can’t wait to have brothers and sisters! And she’s a fantastic cook! I love curries.” 

“What’s your dad like?” 

“He’s an engineer! He’s really funny. They get on so well. She bosses him around no end, but he really likes it. He can cook too!” 

“Good hunting,” I say, happy for him but a little more nervous for myself. “Look after her.” 

“Oh, I will,” green liver says seriously. “You found anyone yet?” 

“Not yet.” 

“Well, the young blonde woman in the next room is really lovely, but her husband’s having an affair. So you’d be a kid with a single mum.” 

“That sounds okay.” I’m not desperate to have a father in the next life. Single mum could be all right. “Might go and pay her a visit,” I say. “When are you due?” Well, I can’t think of any other way to phrase it. ‘When are you going to be reborn’ sounds a bit twee. 

“Tomorrow morning! I’m so excited. Have you seen the soul enter the body?”

I shake my head. 

“It’s amazing. You should try and come!” 

Well, this is getting too weird for me now. 

“I’ll try, if I can. I’ve got a few things to do before I go.” 

“Are you saying goodbye to anyone?” 

“How do you mean?” 

“You can say goodbye,” he explains. “You get to say goodbye to a couple of people before you go.” 

I have no idea what he’s talking about. 

“Before you go. I did it last night, said good bye to my mum and my girlfriend. It’s so easy – you just have to focus on their hearts when they’re asleep, make them dream about a garden, somewhere they’ve never been, and don’t let them touch you. When you’ve said goodbye, you have to make sure they leave you.”

I still have no idea what he’s talking about. 

“What? I have to go into his dreams?”

“Siddown!” Green liver grins, patting a space for me on his new mother’s bed.  Siddown and I’ll tell you how.”

*********************

The single mother is not the mother for me. I sit with her for a few hours, watching her trying to sleep under the weight of her huge belly, her heart busy with images of her deceptive husband. 

“Sorry, sweetheart,” I say as leave. “I’m not the son for you.” 

And as I leave, a young ghost woman with a perfectly split heart is standing at the door.

“That’s my sister,” the sad young ghost tells me.

I don’t know what to say. 

“She doesn’t know I’m dead yet,” she continues in a eery toneless voice. “And I can’t tell her.” 

“Why?” I find some myself asking. 

“We can’t talk to their hearts like you can,” she explains. 

“Who’s ‘we’ ?” 

“Broken hearts,” she says briefly, and when she sees that I still don’t get it, she gets a little aggressive. 

“Self deliverers. Suicides.” 

I look at her heart again. It is as if someone has just snapped it in two. Curiously there is no other sign of her death, not like those of us who die unintentionally.

“Why don’t you want my sister as your mother?” the sad ghost asks me. 

“She needs a strong person,” I tell her truthfully. “I’m not sure I’m strong enough.” 

She stares at me, the first ghost who has really frightened me. And I’m a ghost myself. 

“I am,” she says, and slips over to take the seat I have just vacated.

The broken hearted ghost coloured my night as I wondered home through London, past the blackened alleys where I saw more seamy acts of casual sex, more mindless drunks, more stray cats and more acts of senseless vandalism than I ever saw in my lifetime.

By the time the sun was rising all I wanted was to be around Gilmore’s calm, and to see a beautiful heart again. 

*************************

Morning sunshine, I say to Gilmore who is catching toast from his atomic toaster and humming ‘You Sweet Thing’ almost entirely off key.  

Oh, there’s nothing like a poof in love, is there, you charmer of mothers, you. 

Taffy makes a welter of the peanut butter, coating his toast with a thick layer. For a split second I can smell the oil and proteins and even the shells the peanuts once lived in. 

He makes an almost industrial crunching sound as he hoes into his breakfast.

Taffy, listen up. There’s a strike on at the hospital, so they’re trying to get friends and family in to sit with the patients while the nurses are out – 

And the phone rings. 

Bloody Girl Germs. I had this under control and of course she comes charging in to take over.  

I wait until he’s off the phone and sitting down with some more toast. 

Taffy, Twinkie’s not smelling his sweetest. You might want to take him over some proper soap. That antiseptic stuff they’re using on him at the moment’s is not working. And he’s hot, poor love, and you know what those polyester blend sheets are like in this weather. 

Gilmore shudders. He hates polyester anything. He’s thinking of Luke, stewing in those ugly sheets.

Luke, Luke and more Luke -  his heart is full of him. I’m not jealous, it’s just that I can’t see myself in his heart anymore. 

Have you forgotten me, Taffy? 

As he gnashes on his toast a small clear image of the two of us having breakfast in our old place together lights up in the little corner of his heart where he seems to keep me now. 

(I used to make us breakfast in bed some Sundays, if it was raining, if one or the other or both of us had had a hard week. It was in the early honeymoon days, when we both thought we’d live that happily forever. Funny thing, I stopped doing it because I didn’t think he ever enjoyed it that much. I wished I’d known.) 

It’s so comforting to know I still have a place in his heart. 

Eat up, I say, bringing us both back in to the here and now.  Let us and go forth and perfume Twinkie. 

*******************

I’ve already told you that Taffy is not at his most astute when he’s shopping for clothes. 

He is, however, a man to be reckoned with in Boots. No one loves soaps and associated cleansing potions like my Taffy. 

We’re standing in the aisle in Boots down on the High Street; Taffy is as careful and discriminating as if he were choosing the winner of the Pulitzer prize. Lavender – too floral. Ocean scent – Taffy wrinkles his nose.  A little can of Ajax flies through his heart. Lily of the Valley – well, he just smells that because he likes it. Same with the Honeysuckle.  

He makes a very informed choice of Robert Gallet’s Tomato Body Wash. To my relief, it doesn’t smell of tomatoes, but it is light and fresh. On his way to the counter, he sees a Japanese wash cloth, so he grabs that too. 

Such a poof. 

A miserable boy, no older than seventeen, stands behind the counter ringing up the purchases. His heart, which should be a nice navy blue one, is seriously dented, fuzzy with images of a skinny pale youth with not one, not two but four facial piercings. 

“Good-morning-how-are-you,” he says to Taffy mechanically. 

“I’m great!” Craig beams at him. “How are you?” 

Don’t ask, I say softly, but it’s too late.

“My boyfriend dumped me last night, my job sucks and I hate everything.” 

No room for negotiation there. 

“I’m sorry,” Taffy says, and his heart opens to this poor young gay bloke. “Well, there’s plenty more boys out there.” 

“You ever been dumped?” the angry young man says, He’s sneering, but he’s really desperate for a bit of comfort. 

Craig laughs. “More times than you’ve had hot dinners.” 

Navy Heart thinks about this, sizing Craig up. He’s thinking if a bloke like Craig can get dumped all is not lost. 

“You gotta boyfriend now?” 

“Almost,” Craig says with a truly beatific smile. “I’m going to visit him now.” 

This gives Navy Heart the bit of hope he’s after.

“Hope it works out,” he says, all of a sudden shy and young as he actually is. 

“Thanks. And it’ll work out for you, too. Couple of weeks from now you’ll be beating them off with sticks.” Taffy says this with the weeniest sliver of a flirtatious smile and the dent in the navy heart decreases as I watch. 

“Ya think?”  He’s smiling now, almost cute. 

“I know,” Taffy assures him, taking his bag. “Good luck.” 

And he walks out, leaving Navy Heart in a much better state than he found him. 

You are so sweet, I say as we walk back to the car. 

But he’s not listening. His only got room in his heart for one thing at the moment. 

**Chapter 15**

 

“Quick,” Electra says, gesturing to me as Taffy and I walk down the white hospital corridor.  “Luke hasn’t had any breakfast.” 

It turns out that in the confusion of the strike, Luke not only missed out being put on the food list last night, he missed out this morning too. Coupled with his growing discomfort of inadequate sponge baths, and an appetite fuelled by a decrease in the valium, he’s not a happy camper (so to speak). 

Electra has been hanging around the one nurse on duty, buttonholing visitors as they pass, prompting the nurse with details of their care. 

“Tell him about Luke!” Electra almost screeches in the harassed nurse’s ear as Craig walks by. 

“Mr Gilmore!”  the nurse calls on cue.

************************

Well, I thought he outdid himself with the sheets, but I think Gilmore has just earned himself a place in the Ashton family bible. 

“Thought we could have breakfast together,” Gilmore says, casual, showing Luke a large white paper bag and what must amount to three dozen paper towels. 

It is the biggest bacon and egg roll I have ever seen in my life. And death. 

Taffy, who is still digesting two generous servings of toast and peanut butter, makes do with coffee. 

Luke is salivating with gratitude.

“How’d you know?” he asks, trying to sit up. 

“The nurse grabbed me when I was coming down the corridor,” Taffy tells him, gently supporting Luke’s weight under his arms and sliding him up the bed. “I remember what you used to order when we did the early shift.” 

Taffy plies the bandaged hands with the paper serviettes and fits the sarnie in securely. 

“I am so hungry,” he garbles at Craig through mouthfuls of the hot savoury food. 

“Well, eat up,” Craig smiles. 

And he is hungry, too, poor thing. He’s half way through it before he even starts to feel satisfied. 

“This is so good,” is the next thing he says, mouth full, a tiny smear of sauce on the side of his lips. “You want a bite?” 

Gilmore smiles at him as he sips his coffee. “I had breakfast this morning.” This reminds him of something. “Gina called me and told me about the nurses’ strike.” 

Luke nods. He can’t speak now, there’s no room in his mouth for his tongue to move. 

“If you want, I’ll sit you this morning. In case you need anything.” 

Luke smiles cute as a button with his saucy mouth. Taffy’s heart flips, but he continues as if nothing has happened. 

“Gina says your mother’s going to come in this afternoon.” 

“She wants to bath me,” Luke says – at least that what it sounds like he says. Who can tell through so much bacon? 

Taffy goes a little pale. “Gina?” 

“Mum,” he laughs with a full mouth. 

“Another sponge bath?” 

“No, I can have a shower today,” Luke says quickly so he can keep eating, “but I don’t think there’ll be any nurses around to help.”  And he fills his mouth again. 

Taffy is remarkably calm, and I’m proud to say his heart remains pure. 

“Weren’t they going to change your bandages?’ Craig asks. 

Luke nods as he swallows. “They’ve got a whole lot of ambulance volunteers to do stuff like that.  And some fourth year med students.” 

Craig leaves it at that and lets Mr Piggy finish his food. 

“So good,” he muffles at Craig every couple of mouthfuls. 

“Whoa, he’s a bit on the nose!” Electra says when she pops in later. “God! Has he finished that giant roll already?”

“He was starving,” I tell her. “Tell me someone’s going to bathe him.” 

“Keep your hair on,” she scolds. “Most of the relatives are helping the patients with the bathing and stuff. Could the boyfriend do it? I mean, would he keep his hands to himself?” 

“Absolutely. Craig is a paragon of morality.” 

“Sounds dangerous,” she says airily. “He needs his bandages changed after he has a shower.  I’ll get someone down here.”

Luke gets a volunteer called Lorna, a tall solid woman in her sixties. She stands at the door with a clipboard and a trolley of basic medical equipment, sizing Luke up as she peers over her notes. 

“Luke Ashton?” she asks with gruff voice.

“Yes,” he says politely. 

“I’m Lorna, lovey, one of the retired nurses. I’m gonna help you shower and change yer bandages.”  Lorna has a beautiful deep violet heart, a lovely powdery colour. It is full of family, and strangely enough, crowds and crowds of people. Hundreds of people. Unlike all the other hearts I’ve seen, there are no things in Lorna’s heart – only people. 

Following Lorna is the harassed nurse, two coloured biros hanging on a cord around his neck, his heart all over the place.

“Luke, I’ll try and get you bathed today,” he says, barely concentrating. 

“Says here I’m showering him,” Lorna says firmly. “You ambulatory?” she asks Luke, who looks at Craig to check what this means. 

“If you can you walk about,” Craig says softly. 

The nurse checks his chart. 

“Says here bandages can been changed after he’s had a shower.”

“He can’t wash himself,” Lorna booms at the nurse. She’s right, of course – Luke’s arms are wrapped to the fingertips – just the first two joints of his digits stick out.

The nurse is so busy he can’t even begin to start worrying about how Luke will get a shower. 

Luke has already decided how he wants to shower. 

You just keep your filthy thoughts to yourself, Mister, I tell him. And as for you – 

But Taffy’s looking at Lorna. 

Electra’s trailing the nurse. “Lorna could do it,” she says. 

“You want me to give a yer a shower lovey?” she asks Luke. “It doesn’t bother me if yer don’t. I understand.” 

Luke’s not sure what to say. He doesn’t want to hurt her feelings but he doesn’t want her washing him either. He looks at Craig hopefully. 

Craig, my sensible kindly Taffy, is a bit reluctant, but he knows how he’d feel about Lorna washing him. 

“I can do it,” he says calmly. 

“I knew he’d do that!” Electra squeals when Luke’s heart flips.

“I understand,” Lorna says warmly to Luke. “Yer have to keep yer digniddy in hospital, I know all about that.” She hands Craig a bottle of some of that vile foaming cleanser they wash you with in hospital, and a thin cloth. “I’ll come back in half an hour to change his bandages,” she tells Taffy. 

“Thanks,” Luke says weakly. 

*********************

“You’re okay with this?” Luke asks Craig when they’re in the bathroom. Kind Lorna has wrapped his arms in clingfilm so they don’t get wet.  Luke has his drip with him, and is sitting on the plastic shower seat, still dressed, watching Craig who’s trying to unseal a plastic bag. 

“I washed Sean all the time when he got really sick,” he says as he rips the bag. “I think I’m pretty good at it.” 

He was great, Luke, I say loudly. Electra and I are sitting in the bath on the other side of the bathroom. She’s here not only to offer instruction, but because she wants to watch their hearts flip.

Craig is unfolding a rather preposterous clear plastic apron Lorna found for him. 

He gives the apron his most sombre Gilmore look, and then looks at Luke, who is truly hoping that Craig’s going to wear the apron. 

No way, Twinkie, I say from the bath, no way will Gilmore put that on. 

Electra disagrees. “Bet he does.” 

Luke’s bright eyed and expectant. Taffy doesn’t say anything, just unfolds the apron and holds it up for Luke to see. 

“Nice,” he tells Luke softly, a little suggestively, the sweetest grin on his chops. 

Luke watches, really hoping he’ll put it on. 

Electra and I are on tenterhooks. 

“He won’t do it,” I say confidently. “It’s just not him. He never puts on paper hats at Christmas, hates”-

Gilmore slips the apron over his head and ties the plastic tabs behind his back. 

“I always wanted one of these for the custody desk on Saturday nights,” he says, looking straight in to Luke’s eyes. Luke’s delighted, because he knows Craig’s wearing it to entertain him. 

“That is so sweet!” Electra says. All we need is some popcorn up here. 

“Good fit!” Luke beams at him. 

Craig helps the patient out of his stale clothes, carefully threading the drip bag through the sleeve, testing the water from the hand held shower until he’s satisfied that it’s a comfortable temperature. 

Warm water runs down Luke’s back.

“Oh, yeah,” he sighs at the refreshing spray. So Taffy starts his tomato wash there. 

“Make sure you do the pressure points,” Electra instructs. “He’s on his back all day so he’s prone to bed sores. And don’t forget his bum!” 

“As if,” I snigger. 

Craig dutifully soaps up across the back with the Japanese wash cloth, concentrating on the shoulder blades and the long strips of muscle that run down Luke’s back.

“You lost a fair bit of weight,” Craig tells him. 

Luke just nods. In his heart he remembers having no appetite, and how much he just enjoyed that giant sarnie. 

“You need fattening up,” Gilmore says. 

Luke laughs politely. He’s a bit nervous, he wants to ask something. 

“Hey! That’s you!” Electra cries when images of me rise to surface of Twinkie’s heart.

“You washed Sean everyday?”

“Most days. When he was up to it.” Craig says, carefully holding the shower away from the arms, letting the stream of water rush down Luke’s back.

“What was the matter with him?” 

“Cancer.” And he gives Twinkie the essential details – meeting in hospital – walking stick – terminal illness – Sean drops dead. Luke listens carefully.

“Were you still in love with him?” Luke asks, biting his lip, as Craig carefully soaps under his arms.

“We hadn’t been in love for ages,” Craig says as images of our last huge fight flash in his heart. “Don’t get me wrong – I loved him and he was a great friend to me when I was sick – but we were both way past it when we met up again.” 

“Were you ever in love with him?” Luke asks, eyes closed as Craig gently washes the back of his neck. 

“When I first met him I was, yeah.” He knows what Luke is asking. “It was actually over before I met you,” he says softly. 

“Would you have left him if you, well, if you hadn’t met me?”

I’m rather interested to hear this too. 

“He would have left me, I think.” Gilmore takes a deep breath as he rinses the streams of soapsuds from Luke’s ribs. “The relationship had been on the rocks for ages. We both knew where we were heading.”

Electra looks at me. 

It’s true, I tell her. We were over. 

“He seemed pretty cut up about it,” Luke says. 

“That was Sean,” Craig smiles. “He liked a good tantrum.” He says this with genuine affection. 

Luke looks dubious. Tantrum throwing is clearly fairly low on the list of things he finds attractive in people.

“Don’t let that one time put you off him,” Craig says gently. “He was great value. He had the best sense of humour, and he was really smart, really clever. He was one of the senior IT Managers at the Bank of London, you know.” 

Was he?” Computers and slide rules pass through Twinkie’s heart. 

“Yeah,” Taffy says with great pride. “A thousand times smarter than me. And he had such a good heart, really generous and kind.” 

Taffy! 

“You would have really liked him if you knew him,” Craig adds. “He was the nicest bloke.”

“Oh, this is so sweet!” Electra sighs.

“So what happened?” Luke’s question is a good one. I wonder if Craig is going to tell him about my infidelity.

“We weren’t right for each other. You know what it’s like. You can love someone, really love someone, and not be in love with them,” Craig says as he holds the spray over Luke’s thigh and carefully steps around the drip to the other side. “You know, you want what’s best for them, you want them to be happy, you even feel sort of possessive about them.” Craig takes a breath and phrases his next statement carefully. “You probably felt the same way about Kerry.”  

“Yeah!” Luke is intense, paying close attention. “That’s exactly how I felt with Kerry. I didn’t want to hurt her, I wanted to look after her...” 

“Well, it’s the same thing,” Taffy says as he swirls the soapy Japanese washcloth over Luke’s torso. “I think people confuse it, loving someone as opposed to be in love with some one.” 

“But you can do both,” Luke says. 

“True.” Craig is carefully washing under the arm now. “That’s not hurting?” he says as he holds the damaged arm. 

“No, it’s fine. Do you think it’s common?” Luke’s heart is moving fast. “Gay men getting married?”

“I know it’s common,” Craig says casually, not looking at him, making it easy as possible. “I know blokes who have had perfect marriages, even a couple of kids, and ended up screaming out of the closest when they’re forty.” 

“Really?” 

Craig’s nods, kneeling now, washing the calves and ankles. His knee starts to ache a little; there’s a picture of a support bandage in his heart.  “There’s no one type. Gay men aren’t young and single with fabulous taste and no morals. Same as straights, really, except they’re all men.” 

Luke hasn’t thought of it like this. He’s thinking very hard. Taffy is very gently washing the small grey stain of bruise on Luke’s foot where they had fixed the canula originally. 

“I hate gay clubs,” Luke says out of nowhere.

Taffy looks at him while he soaps his feet. Electra calls out to pay special attention to the heels – they’re susceptible to bed sores too. 

“I mean,” Luke explains, “I don’t want to hang around – I don’t, you know…” and he stops there. 

“Go on,” Craig coaxes gently. 

“I don’t want to go to clubs and pick people up and have people hitting on me. It makes me really uncomfortable.” He seems to have bottled this up for a long time, it’s coming out in one angry stream. “I’m not promiscuous. I don’t like it, the whole scene.” 

“He’s more confused than I thought,” Electra says. 

Taffy thinks so too. He looks at Luke, a little unsure. 

“You don’t have to go to clubs or sleep around,” Craig says, stopping for a bit to balance his weight, and rinsing his Japanese washcloth while he’s at it. He stands up and stretches his back, leaning towards Luke slightly. 

“I don’t like it either. A lot of gay men don’t like it. It’s not about clubs or promiscuity any more than it is for straights or lesbians.” He looks at Luke, trying to work out what he’s thinking. “Sit back a bit for me,” he says, gently easing Luke back into the chair. 

Luke looks at him for a second or two, then looks away, suddenly feeling very naked and very vulnerable.

“I know,” he mumbles. “It’s just like, every thing I read, and the guys I met…” 

“Who did you meet? You mean that Joe?” Craig asks as he washes the throat and chest. Luke lifts his chin and holds his arms out. 

“Who’s Joe?” Electra asks me.

“Some slimy git who hit on Luke after he got married.” 

“This is like a soap opera,” she sighs. “It’s fabulous!”

“Not Joe,” Luke says hastily, his heart antennae closing for the briefest second. “No one special. I went...when I first worked out, well, admitted I was gay I went to a couple of clubs.” He bites his lip again. Craig, meanwhile, washes his chest and belly. “I was lonely,” he tells Craig. 

“No shame in that,” he assures him. “Look, it’s not easy. Coming out is really hard, and feeling lonely is the worse thing about it. It’s only natural you want to talk to other people who understand you.”  Taffy hoses down the soapy chest. “That’s why the clubs are popular. It’s hard for gays to connect. They – WE – don’t have much space of our own.” 

“What do you mean?”

“Straights can mix anywhere. There’s no limit on how straight people mix at work or in clubs or anywhere. It’s different for gays. I couldn’t talk like this to you at work’- Luke looks alarmed at this thought – “but it would be perfectly acceptable if we were straight.”

Images of noisy smoky clubs blur in Luke’s heart.

“I hated it,” he says bitterly as Craig delicately and respectfully swipes the soapy cloth over Luke’s abdomen and groin. 

“Coming out? Most people do. It’s not easy.” A murky grey stain of hatred for Kerry burns in Taffy’s heart, but passes quickly.

“What was that about?” Electra is alarmed.

“Luke’s wife outed him at a wedding reception in front of all the people he worked with.” 

“BITCH!” Electra fumes.

“And I hate the club thing, I hate that you’re expected to sleep with everyone.” Luke’s angry; streaks of scarlet stain his heart. 

 “You don’t have to go to go clubs or sleep with every man who looks sideways at you. It’s not law,” Craig says firmly as he rinses Twinkie’s legs and cute feet. While Luke’s lips are still gripped tight with anger, Taffy reads his tomato tube. “Says here you can use this on your hair too. You want me to wash your hair?” 

“Do you mind?” 

“Fine by me. Close your eyes tight.” Luke does as he’s told and Taffy fits the shower back into the bracket. Luke hasn’t got that much hair, so it’s a fairly quick procedure.  Craig smoothes the thick foam over the patient’s scalp, gently massaging the crown with his fingertips. Electra and I both groan; when we concentrate we can feel Taffy’s fingers over Luke’s head. 

“You know, there’s a lot of people you can talk to.” 

“I don’t want to talk to people about it,” Luke says quietly, his eyes jammed shut as soap streams over his face. “I want to talk to you.” 

“Fair enough.” Craig even remembers to wash behind the neat Ashton ears before he lets the warm water run over the patient’s head, making sure he’s rinsed all the soap away. 

“And that’s all I wanted to say, really. I just hate the scene.” Luke opens his eyes, his face shiny and wet.  

“Well, good!” Craig smiles at him. “You’re allowed to hate the scene. Now stand up, ‘cause I’m going to wash your back properly.”

“Did you hate the scene?” Electra asks me. 

“I LERVED the scene!” I tell her. I did too. 

Anyway, Twinkie seems a lot happier, having got that off his chest. With Craig’s support, he stands up slowly and turns around.  

“Don’t forget his bum!” Electra calls out. 

“He’s left the best bit to last,” I tell her.

“There’s a lot of myths about what gay men do and don’t do,” he tells Luke as he lathers the long back firmly. “You know, most of us are really boring.” 

“Some of us are really interesting,” Luke counters. Ladies and gentlemen, he said some of **us.** At last. 

“Some. But most of us are boring.” Taffy’s washing the muscly bottom very well. “Ordinary.” 

“That’s all I want, to be ordinary,” he tells Craig who is hosing him down for the last time. There are droplets all over the ridiculous apron. 

“Well, you’re extraordinarily clean now,” Taffy smiles, turning off the water. 

Luke smiles back. “That was a good shower.” 

“Told you I was good. Stand still so I can dry you.” 

He rubs the towel over Luke until he’s pink. It’s a curiously clinical arrangement – both of them have displayed remarkable restraint – until Craig dries Luke’s face. He tries very hard not to meet his eyes but can’t stop himself, and gently strokes the side of his face with the towel. 

“He did it again!” Electra says delighted when Luke’s heart flips. “And now Craig!” 

Taffy catches himself in time, and starts carefully unwrapping the cling film from the arms before he reaches for Luke’s clean clothes. Luke says nothing, but tries to help dress himself, pulling at the tracksuit pants as best he can, trying to tug the singlet into place.

“All done,” Craig smiles at him when they’ve finished and takes his apron off. 

They face each other, smiling. Luke takes the opportunity to ease himself into Craig’s arms, resting his head under his chin. 

Craig holds him gently, stroking his damp head and back. 

“You know I love you,” Luke says. 

“Ooooh!” Electra squeaks. 

Craig lays his head on Luke’s, eyes closed and wearing the most precious smile. 

“No, I didn’t,” he says after he’s savoured it, “but it’s nice to know.” 

“I do,” Luke says. “I really do.” His voice is quaking a little as if he might cry. 

“Let him talk, Craig,” Electra calls out. “Ask him questions.” 

“What’s up?” he asks him gently. “Don’t be sad. Worst bit’s over.” He leans back to look at him, engage his eyes. 

“I just  - I can’t get over what I did,” he says, tears starting to come quickly. “I can’t believe I hurt so many people, just to try and – I can’t believe the way I treated you, what I did to Kerry, I, I...” Luke falters, almost choking on the thought. His heart clouds over again, the tentacles clogged in charcoal misery.

“It’s alright,” Craig soothes, stroking his head. “Just tell me.” 

“I can’t...that I did all those things because I was frightened. I just...” Luke’s crying now, distraught. Craig wipes his face on the towel. “I just kept thinking about all the things I’d done, how many people I lied to, the way I treated people. I was  - I mean, I married someone, for Gods sakes. I married someone! I mean, how did I do that, how could I do that to someone? And the things I did to you, and you, you never did anything but what was right for me, and ...” A sob catches him, he gulps for breath, “…the baby. I mean, he didn’t deserve… I can’t believe that I could have caused all that...” and now the tears come fast and thick. 

Craig cups the back of his head and holds him against his chest, gently kissing his forehead, leaving his lips there for a few seconds. 

“Sorry,” Luke says, wiping his paw over the wet patch on Craig’s shirt. 

“It’s alright,” he whispers, still holding him. “Plenty of shirts.” 

No checks! I remind him. 

Luke grows quiet as the grief gathers in his heart.

“Talk to him, Craig,” Electra calls out. “Get him talking.”

“It must have built up over a long time,” Craig suggests.  

“That’s what happened,” he says, his voice thick and hoarse. “It just got to hurt so much, the more I realised what I did. And that I’d never see you again, I didn’t know where you went, it all hurt so much. And then I thought you must have thought I hated you. I couldn’t stand that, that you might think I hated you.” 

He stops; Craig wipes his face again. 

“I know you didn’t hate me,” he assures him. “Did you try to tell anyone?” 

“I couldn’t. I got sick of feeling so bad all the time. I just wanted it to go away. I wanted to wake up and not feel it, no feel the pain anymore.”  Luke takes a deep breath. “It felt good, you know, when I cut myself. It felt like when I finished, I wouldn’t feel anything anymore.” 

Craig takes him back into his arms. It frightens him, hearing this.

“I wish I could have talked to you,” Taffy whispers in to the shiny Ashton hair. “You know, I came around last week to see you,” he admits, “but I saw Gina there and took off.” 

“Did you come to see me?” The clouds of grief start to thin slightly; small swatches of coral are becoming visible.

Craig nods. “I missed you,” is all he says. 

This is more than enough for Luke, whose heart is flushing coral once more.

Craig holds him for another couple of minutes.  

“Enough,” Electra calls out when Luke seems to have calmed down. “If you’re not going to make each other’s hearts flip anymore, Luke has to go back to bed.”

“Come on,” he says to Luke gently, “before Lorna comes and gets us.” 

**************************

Lorna is waiting for them when they come back from the shower. She has her bandages and bottles all lined up. 

“Do you want me to go?” Craig asks Luke, but Lorna’s in charge now. 

“No, lovey, you cen stay as long as yer don’t pass out on me.” She helps Luke up on to his bed, and moves Craig’s seat out of her way. 

Luke gives Craig a tiny affirming nod as if to say, “So there.” He wants him to stay.

Lorna’s not one for flowery elaborate speech. She works silently, deftly unwinding the long strips of crepe bandages wrapped around Luke’s left arm. 

 It’s the most shocking sight you’ll ever see, the wounds someone inflicts on themselves in misery and rage. Luke looks briefly at Craig who has stealthily slipped his hand under the flabby cotton bed cover and is gently squeezing his calf. He leaves his hand there the whole time, gently stroking Luke from calf to ankle, making himself look at the wounds until understands how badly Luke was prepared to punish himself for what he did to him. 

“They’re clean,” Electra says coolly when the wounds are exposed. “Healing very nicely.”

Luke can only bear to look at the horrible marks for a second or two at a time. He seems ashamed to see what he has done. Craig waits until he looks at him and squeezes his calf again. 

Lorna lifts the papery sheets that cover wounds one by one and gently drops them in a small plastic bag. 

“You feeling better now?” she says as she paints the wounds with a cotton swab soaked with brown iodine. 

“Not bad,” Luke says pleasantly. His heart gently sways towards her. “You got many patients to do today?” 

“Nineteen,” she says proudly. 

“That’ll keep you busy,” Craig notes politely. 

“Suits me, lovey,” she says happily. For such a big fearsome woman she’s incredibly gentle with Luke. I thought some kind of emotion might come up on her heart, but the only thing there is Luke. She takes his care very seriously. A soft creamy gold – the colour of compassion - coats her heart when Luke looks away with shame on his face.

They’re all silent as she hides the wounds with fresh wraps. 

********************

On Friday morning, Taffy lays besides me on the unmade bed, making plans and devising strategies for Luke’s care. 

I’m wondering if I should throw caution to the wind and make my way to New York while there’s still time. I’ve always wanted to live in New York. I’m wondering if four days would be enough time for me to find the right mother there. 

Craig’s wondering how he can tell if Luke wants to kill himself again. 

If I leave now, I could go to New York, be born to some fabulous couple in Tribeca and study Art History at Columbia in my next life. 

Every now and then, Craig remembers Luke’s declaration of love yesterday. It makes him smile and bite his bottom lip. 

His thoughts meander over to Luke’s cuts, how he will react to the scars when the bandages finally come off. In his heart he is already kissing the pale marks, already planning how he will Let Luke know that he welcomes and treasures the whole Ashton package.

It’s one of the best things about you, Taffy, the way you care for every last inch of the people lucky enough to win your heart. 

The way you cared for me right up until the very last second. 

And I answer my own question. 

*************************

We go back to the hospital late in the afternoon. The English patient is being fed now, and this morning a kindly male nurse helped with another shower, so he’s feeling a good deal better. 

“They say I can go home in a couple of days,” Luke tells Taffy as soon as he arrives, and he looks so happy. 

“Great!” Gilmore agrees, leaning over and softly kissing his cheek. “When?” 

“Monday morning, probably.” 

Luke’s arms are hurting a little less, so he can turn around on the bed and face Craig now. 

“You look so much better,” Craig says as they reach for each other’s fingertips. 

“The staff psychiatrist came and saw me today.”

“What’d he say?” Gilmore asks, leaning in. His heart fills with worrying images. 

Luke snorts a little contemptuously. 

“He said I was depressed.” 

“I could have told him that,” Craig sneers.

“He’s referring me to a psychologist.” He moves a little closer to Craig, his voice hushed and a little sad “Mostly he was worried that I was bipolar, or had some kind of heredity illness. When he found out that I was gay, he wasn’t really that concerned. He said it’s really common, young gay men trying to kill themselves.” 

Craig is privately fuming, big globs of scarlet all over his heart.  He maintains his calm for Luke, though. 

“There’s lots of people you can talk to. I’ll help you find someone.” 

“He’s going to refer me to some clinic,” Luke says, “but he says it’s up to me if I want to have therapy.” 

“Do you?” 

“I don’t want someone telling me everything’s going to be okay or making me weave belts,” Luke says honestly. “But I’d like to talk to someone about…” he tries to assess what it is exactly he wants to talk about. In his heart there’s a cocktail of Craig, Kerry, babies, Africans and his mother. “…the hard bits. I want someone to explain the hard bits.” And he grins at Craig, who, of course, understands. 

He reaches over and strokes Luke’s cheek briefly. The cute Twinkie heart weeds all sway over towards Craig.  

 “You’ve still got some time off, haven’t you?” 

Craig nods, still smiling. 

“Hello Handsome!” Electra calls out as she follows a nurse. “Am I missing anything?” 

“They’re trying to tell each other they want to keep seeing each other.” 

“Oh, goodie!” And she comes in to watch. “I think Craig and Luke are the best thing happening in this hospital,” she smiles as she sits down next to me. 

Luke is looking down at his bandaged hands, Craig is terrified of saying the wrong thing. I remember what he was like when he started seeing me, so I give him a little assistance.

Luke’s too scared to ask you Taffy, but he wants to see you. Tell him you’ll see him, let him know that everything will be all right. 

A shell of icy fear crystallises around the big red heart. Poor Taffy, he’s not sure what to say, so instead he slips his fingers over Luke bandaged hands and touches the fingertips again. 

“I thought we could…” but that’s going to sound clumsy, and Craig halts, mid sentence. 

“Thought we could what?” In his heart Ashton is remembering just talking to Craig, hanging around and talking at work. 

“I’m not sure what you want,” Craig says, not looking up.

“Want to be with you,” is all Luke mumbles. 

“Good,” Craig says quickly. “Then I can come and see you. Or you could come over to my place.” 

“Both. Either.” They are idly touching fingertips, doing everything they can to avoid the uncomfortable topic of where they go to from here.

“Oh you’re both bloody useless,” Electra calls out. “Just tell him, Craig. Tell him it’s on for young and old.” 

“I’d like to keep to seeing you,” Craig stammers, while in his heart he revisits the time he told Luke he loved him. 

“I do too,” Luke stammers back.

And then the uncomfortable silence of two men weighed down by shyness and fear fills the room.  

“I have no idea how any men ended up ruling the world, let alone the majority of men,” Electra tells me. 

“Ruling the world is a damn sight easier than starting a relationship,” I answer. 

While we talk, Taffy and Luke lift their shy faces and smile at one another. 

“Sorted,” I tell her confidently. 

She makes an exasperated, disbelieving face. “HOW is it sorted?”

“Bloke thing. It just is.” 

And right on cue, at this sensitive moment, a cheery female voice rings through the room.

“You’re looking better!” 

Girl Germs has arrived bearing a large bottle of lemonade. This bemuses Luke; in his heart there are drinking glasses – which of course he doesn’t have.

“Thanks,” he says as she places the bottle on the bureau. 

“I never know what to get people in hospital,” she says as she starts reading his chart. Luke and Craig give each other the cutest knowing looks. I think it’s safe to say they have just shared their first, non-verbal, private couples’ joke. 

“Who’s she again?” Electra asks. 

I explain Girl Germ’s chequered interfering history as she sits happily with Craig and Luke, nattering about Sun Hill. I see she has her giant leather bag with her, and I decide that if I don’t follow her home soon I’ll never find out what’s in there. 

“I’m off to help the trainees with the obs,” Electra tells me when Gina becomes too much for her. 

“See you over the weekend, doll,” I smile. 

“Hope so!” 

Pity I never met Electra when we were alive. Pity, too, that she wasn’t a bloke. 

********************

Saturday – laundry day. Taffy’s been sorting coloured from whites, measuring soap powder and pegging wash in the bright sunlight since early morning. He’s very happy, and once more is humming dreary Van Morrison songs off key. 

He’s just hung the last of his sheets out when Girl Germs arrives bearing more gifts – this time a very nice flowering iris, a hothouse hybrid in remarkable shades of purple and blue black. 

Now that’s what I call a make up present, I tell Gilmore. 

He’s pretty impressed himself. 

“This is beautiful,” Taffy says, stroking the delicate suede like petals. 

“It reminded me of you,” Gina says, but I can see her heart and I know that’s not quite true. It reminded her of me, the time she came so long ago – a year ago! – to tear me away from Craig’s door. 

Craig looks at her with a slightly amused face. “I remind you of irises?” 

“You remind me of dark colours.” Gina yawns, quickly covering her mouth. “Excuse me,” she apologises. “I was up half the night cleaning out my bag. I don’t know what came over me – I was just compelled in the middle of the night to clear it all out.” 

You’d be amazed what she had in there, Taffy, I tell him. I made her chuck it all out. She’s a hoarder like you wouldn’t believe. 

Craig casts a nervous look at Gina’s bag. It’s a part of the female psyche he never wants to be concerned with. “Anyway, enough of the flowers,” she yawns again. “Make me a cup of coffee and tell me what you’re doing with Luke.’ 

His heart fills with images of Luke, different shots of him as if someone is dealing cards. Craig feels protective, weary.

“You make him sound like a decorating project,” he answers a little stiffly. “I’m not doing anything with Luke. I visit him when I can and I talk to him.” 

“How do you think he is?” 

Craig looks away. More images appear, Luke in the shower, weepy and repentant, both of them looking at the hacking marks on his arms. 

“He’s – it’s still early days. Very fragile. He’s had a rough time.” 

“He put in for a transfer before he left Sun Hill. There’s a post in Croyden for him in six weeks if he wants it.  Adam’s asked me what I think.” 

My Taffy is adamant, shaking his head. “No way,” he says. “He’s far too frail. Why? What do you think?”

“Absolutely not,” Gina says firmly. “I don’t think he’ll be ready for work for months.”

“I agree with you. And I would say at least six months, maybe more. And if I were the sergeant taking him, I’d be pissed off that someone tried to send a person as ill as he’s been back to work. He needs to rest for a long time.” Craig is rinsing the cafatiere with hot water, holding Luke close in his heart. “Adam knows what he did?” 

“I had to tell him, Craig.” 

Craig nods. “Anybody else?”  A picture of the former Mrs Ashton shows indistinctly on his heart. 

Gina shakes her head. “I thought about telling Kerry, but it’s something Luke should tell her, not me.” 

“They seem to have made up,” Craig says. Emerald green, little bitter green specks of jealousy scatter over his heart like raindrops. Taffy, forget it. Don’t waste your heart colours on groundless fears.

Gina hears the pinpricks of jealousy in his tone. “She’s well over him, Craig,” she assures him as she reaches for the mugs in his neat cupboard. “I hear she’s entertaining another member of the relief.”

The look of distaste and relief on Taffy’s face is worth seeing. “I hope she’ll be happy,” is all he says. Yeah, right, I say, looking at his heart. Like Mother Ashton, Taffy will never forgive her for outing his man the way she did. 

“So when do you start your new job?” Gina asks. 

Craig grins as he spoons the heavy brown ground beans into the cafatiere. 

“Looks like I don’t.”

Gina’s surprised as I am. “What?”

“I haven’t told, you, haven’t have I?”

“Told me what? No you haven’t!” 

Taffy gives her a malevolent little grin and holds out just a little longer. Meanwhile his Sergeant’s stripes are blazing on his heart. 

“Do you know Allan Albright?”

“Brighty!” Gina says immediately. 

Craig explains the fortuitous meeting at Scotland Yard early this week. 

“Anyway, when I got home last night, there was a message from him to call him at home.” 

Turns out, while Girl Germs and I were clearing the clutter from her life, Brighty and Craig were putting their new unit in place. 

“He’s organised it so I can sit my Sergeant’s exams at the end of this week.” I swear Taffy is glowing as he speaks. “Provided I pass, I can start with him in three weeks.” 

Daisies bloom in Gina’s pale pink heart. I’m not sure if that is more clutter, or a sign of genuine happiness. 

“Fantastic!” She reaches over and without any qualms gives Craig a cheerful kiss. He can smell her scent; he’s uncertain what it is but there’s a bowl of ice cream in his heart for a fleeting a second. 

Right on the money, Taffy – it’s the Body Shop vanilla oil. She has a bottle in her bag. (I made her throw the other one out. Well, it was nearly empty.)

“And what about the Yard?” 

“Brighty’s fixed that. He sent a memo to the head of the Department and Human Resources and told them that he has a position suited to my rank that won’t be compromised by my knee.” 

“So you’re not on the beat?” 

“It’s a desk job,” Craig says plainly. “An admin job, but I will be stationed, and I will be in uniform.” He’s calmer, and speaks with confidence. “It’s not what I love, and I’m not kidding myself that I’ll ever be on the same career path that I was, but like I said to Luke, it’s a damn sight better than signing those bloody evaluation forms.” 

“You really didn’t want to do that, did you?”  Gina smiles at him.

Craig shakes his head. “I’m not a clerk,” he tells her. “I hate pointless bloody paperwork, hate shuffling documents from one end of the room to the other. I like to do things with a purpose. And I can do this. I know I’m a good supervisor, and I don’t give a stuff what people think of me when I’m putting procedure in place. That’s basically what this job requires, and I get to do it in uniform.” 

Girl Germs looks at him with admiration. “You’ll have your work cut out for you,” she warns. 

“Good. I hope I do.” He is so committed, the stripes still clear in his heart. 

“I’m serious, Craig. You know as well as I do that there are a lot of Taviners out there.” 

“I know. I’ve been putting up with them for thirteen years.” He’s quiet for a few seconds; it’s hard thing to try and explain to someone what it’s like to be hated for what you are, and that’s pretty much what gays put up with every day. Craig opts against telling Girl Germs, but she’s getting the picture. It does, however, set fire to something else in his heart.

“Maybe if there’d been something like this in place at Sun Hill Luke wouldn’t have ended up the way he is now.” 

“Oh, that’s ridiculous, it had nothing to..,”

But Craig cuts her off, and suddenly his heart is scarlet, hot and angry. 

“That nasty blonde bitch wouldn’t have pulled that little stunt, outing him like that, if she didn’t think she had the support of the rest of them.” 

There’s no argument for that. 

“Watching it, and letting someone get away with it, is as bad as doing it as far as I’m concerned.” 

“It’s not her all her fault.” Gina is speaking quietly; in her heart she can see Craig at the wedding, drunk and miserable in a suit. 

“I know that, and I don’t really want to argue with you about it. But it’s not all his fault either.  I doubt he would have been so scared of coming out if he thought people wouldn’t start hating him or thinking any less of him.” Craig plunges the coffee and moves over to the table, “She wouldn’t have done it if I’d been there.” 

“You don’t like her, do you?” Gina asks outright. 

That’s another really dumb question, I tell her. 

Taffy’s face is unreadable; his heart is covered in one person. “It’s got nothing to do with whether I like her,” – he emphasises the word like – “it’s just that I really like Luke. And I don’t like seeing people I like treated the way she treated him.” 

“He shouldn’t have married her,” Gina argues. 

Yeah, well, if you hadn’t stuck your big beak in, he probably wouldn’t have, I tell her in my nasty voice. 

“I agree. But she shouldn’t have treated him that way, either. He would never do something like that to her.” 

Gina has to concede this point. Craig watches her silently, all kinds of colours swirling in his heart. 

“You know,” he ventures, with just a hint of shine in his eyes, “I’ve got an excuse, supporting Luke like I do. What’s yours with Kerry? Why do you take her side in this?” 

Girl Germs bristles a little, but ends up laughing despite herself because she knows he’s right. 

“Well, we’ve all been young and stupid,” she tells him resignedly. “I wish someone had been around to look out for me when I was younger.”  

Well, you should’ve mixed with more dead people, I tell her smugly.

She moves her mug towards him, waiting for him to fill it. “So, you’ve got another few weeks off now?” 

Craig nods as he fills her cup, his heart brimming with Luke. 

Gina phrases her next question carefully. “You’re okay financially?”

Craig appreciates her concern. “I’m great financially,” he tells her. “That was the one good thing about the knee – I didn’t spend anything for months, and the pension added up too.” 

“So you’re going to be Luke’s sugardaddy?” She gives him a sexy little smile. 

“Yeah,” Gilmore grins back. “I’m going to buy him a pony.” 

********************

And as Gilmore and his Ashton grew closer over the next couple of days, so did I come to realise that perhaps I had not spent my death in way I supposed to. 

Everyone had a new mother but me. 

Mick the Journo, who became obsessed with the maternity ward in general and watching births specifically, found himself a hard nosed Observer journalist, about to bring forth a baby she’d conceived with a BBC news producer. 

“I can’t go wrong!” he told me ecstatically on Saturday evening, as Taffy and Luke twined their fingertips and talked in hushed tones together. “I’ll definitely be able to come back a journo, and none of this local paper crap! My Dad works at the BBC and my mum’s at the Observer!”

The other ambulance ghouls also were finding families. One was coming back to a family of six, another had chosen a woman who never planned to have children - they’d even found that stupid dog a new mother. 

“Porky’s going to be a poodle!” the fireman with the blood clot told me as Gilmore and I were walking across the car park.  Porky was leaping across the roofs of parked vehicles.

“A poodle? He’s not smart enough to be a poodle.”

“Well, if he comes back as a poodle, he’ll get smart,” the fireman says doubtfully. “Anyway, we found him a lovely mum down at the Battersea Dog Home. You should go and see all the animal ghosts! It’s amazing.” 

“Mmmm,” is all I can say. I find the people ghosts confronting enough. 

“So who’s your new mum?” he asks me as we watch Porky chasing his tail on the roof of a red Golf.

“I haven’t got one yet.” 

“Are you staying behind?” 

“Huh?” Didn’t know I could do that. 

“You know, the guardian angel thing. You can do that, so I hear, just not find a mum, miss your departure date and stay behind as a guardian angel. Or a tourist attraction.” 

“Tourist attraction?”

“All the ghosts in the Tower of London and the old country homes. They just stayed because they like the attention. “

“I don’t think anyone’s going to pay to see money to be haunted by me,” I tell him. 

“They will if you’re scary. And you can still look after Sarge over there and his mate.” 

Gilmore’s unlocking his car. 

“I have to go,” I say nicely. “Good luck with the litter, Porky,” I tell the moronic dog who is currently chasing a paper bag across the car park. 

“Look after yourself,” the fireman says sincerely. “Good luck, whatever you decide to do.”

“Thanks, you take care,” I reply. “See you around!” 

“Maybe in the next life,” he grins at me. 

*******************

I run into Electra outside the nurses’ station on Sunday, the day before Luke is discharged. Craig has just kissed him goodbye; we’re going home to do a bit of a tidy up. 

“I’ve found a mum!” she says delightedly. “One of the neurosurgeons is having a baby! I’d forgotten about her – but she came in today and had lunch with some of the other girls. She’s due in about a fortnight.” 

“That’s fantastic,” I say, more bleakly than I mean to. 

“There’s still time, Sean,” she says kindly. “Or are you going to stay with him?” 

“I don’t know,” is all I can tell her. “I don’t know.” 

“And I hear Luke’s going home tomorrow.” 

“Yeah.” 

“So I won’t see you again.” 

I shake my head sadly. Goodbyes are hard when you’re dead too.

“Well, it’s been great fun knowing you,” she smiles, and her electric grid stain seems to glow. 

“Yeah, you too. I hope we meet again. When we’re alive.” 

“I’m absolutely certain we will,” she says sincerely. “Good luck with what ever you do. And you know you did the right thing, bringing them together. He would have done the same for you.” 

She’s right. Craig would have. 

“Take care,” I tell her, “and look out for me in the next life.” 

“Next life! Yay! ” Electra cheers as she follows the staff nurses up the corridor. 

***********************

On Sunday night, Craig and I are laying on his bed, thinking about the future. We’ve had a busy day. Taffy has stocked up on groceries (he could make enough lasagne to feed a small prep school for a month), bought some more tomato wash, a fresh Japanese wash cloth and stocked up on crepe bandages. He made a point of being there yesterday when Luke had his bandages changed again, to make sure he can do it correctly if he has to. 

He’s also bought an elastic knee bandage and some chocolate digestive biscuits too, but I think they might be for him. 

Luke is being discharged tomorrow; he and Gilmore have spent much of this evening talking about this. Craig wants Luke to go home with his mum, and to meet up with him on Tuesday. 

“We’ve got lots of time,” he told Luke as he lightly squeezed the tip of his little finger. “Let’s take it slowly.”    

Anyway, Taffy and I are lying side by side, like we used to do when I was alive. 

Do you need a guardian angel? I ask him. Do you need someone to look after you and Luke? 

Gilmore is stroking his chest, and this action is matched by an image in his heart, the two of them lying together in a large bed. The stag night. 

Do you need help? I ask him again. Talk to me Craig. Do you think you need help in caring for him? 

Taffy flexes his fingers over and over while he wonders about Luke. He sees Luke bloody and desperate, Luke crying in the shower, Luke in uniform, chatting to him in a car. 

He leans over to the bedside and starts dialling a number. 

Good Samaritans, I wonder?

“Dylan, it’s Craig,” he says down the phone. “You got a minute to talk?”

 

**Chapter 16**

 

**“When the dead are done with the living…the living can go on to other things.”**

**The Lovely Bones   Alice Sebold (2002)**

It’s Tuesday, a beautiful hot bright Tuesday.

My last day with Gilmore. 

*************************

Craig is sitting with Luke at the kitchen table. It’s a week since Luke sat here with his mother, plotting his death. 

Today, Luke is considerably brighter. And he looks cute! He’s wearing a pair of dark green cargo pants with a white tank; the pale washed out bruise on his foot barely visible now under the straps of his leather flip flops. 

Twinkie will have no trouble in cleansing Craig’s wardrobe of checks for all time. 

Gilmore is resplendent a plain, very fine cotton shirt with a pair of perfectly faded jeans he hasn’t worn for years. They fit very well, and somehow make his thighs look longer. 

They make a very handsome couple, smiling shyly at one another in Mrs Ashton’s kitchen. 

Taffy has a heart full of sunshine as he struggles to keep his eyes off Luke’s very nice biceps. “What do you want to do?”

Luke bites his bottom lip. He’d sit here all afternoon and happily just stare at Craig across the table, but he feels obliged to be more entertaining. They’re drinking cold juice from rather pretty pink frosted glasses while Mrs Ashton is in the lounge, the door discretely pushed too, clicking away at her crochet. (It’s definitely a bedspread.)

Gilmore, I say, he has no idea. Give him some clues of what kind of date he should take you on. 

“Do you want to see a movie?” Taffy asks him. 

Luke looks at his bandaged arms. 

Oh Craig, think a bit more carefully. He’s not going to want to go anywhere where people can see he tried to kill himself, and he’s not going to be able to use his arms, so don’t ask him roller skating either. 

Luke looks up, a bit embarrassed. 

Its lovely down at the river, I say to Taffy. He needs some fresh air and exercise. And if you sit in the right place you can canoodle in absolute privacy. 

Craig’s heart almost ignites at the thought of kissing Luke in the warm afternoon. 

“We could go for a walk, down through the park, if that’s not to boring,” he suggests apprehensively.

He wants to snog you under the trees, Twinkie. Get him while he’s hot. 

Pity Electra’s not here to see Luke’s heart flipping. 

“Yeah, I’d like a walk. I haven’t been out for ages.” He’s trying to remember the last time he went out for a walk. It was when he bought his knife.

Forget it, I say to Twinkie. Take Craig a-snogging and forget the knife.

Luke kisses his mother goodbye before he leaves, and her lovely lemon heart sparkles as she watches him walk off down the street with Craig. 

You should tell Patty, I suggest to her. She’d love to know about Craig and Luke’s first date.

Mother Twinkie’s on the phone faster that you can hook a stitch.

************************

“I’ve been trying to work out what I’m like,” Luke says as they walk down his street over towards the park. 

Craig looks at him politely, not getting it. I’m pretty confused myself. 

Twinkie extends his stiff and cumbersome bandaged arms like a marionette. 

“I’m like one of the Thunderbirds,” he says with his wonderful smile, and it makes Gilmore laugh. 

“I used to love that show,” Gilmore says happily. 

Did you now? I say. The things you learn.

Twinkie feels the same, and he smiles broadly at Craig. “Did you?”

“You sound surprised.” 

“It’s just that it’s hard to imagine you as a kid,” Luke says, a little unsure. 

“Why? Because I’m so boring?” Taffy makes this remark light heartedly, but I know it’s one of biggest fears. 

“You’re not boring,” says Luke adamantly. “But it’s hard to imagine you as a kid because you’re so…grown up.” 

Gilmore turns this over to check if he should be concerned. He rather likes the idea of being grown up, but worries that Luke thinks he’s old. 

“You think I’m too old?” 

“No! I think you’re grown up, Virgil.” 

And that makes Craig laugh too. I am so hoping he’s going to make a Lady Penelope joke, but maybe it’s too soon in the relationship.

Craig’s headed towards the High Street, but Luke knows a better route. 

“We can cut down through here,” and they walk down a street of beautiful gardens and neat houses.

“This is a nice place to grow up.” Flowers are heavy and wilting in the gardens they walk past. 

“It’s got nicer,” Luke tells him. “It was a lot rougher when we first came here.”  

They carry on like that, still not entirely relaxed around one another, still a bit uncertain, their hearts flickering like candles.  Luke’s arms hurt after a short time; he folds them across his chest to support their weight. 

There are lots of people in the park on this brilliant afternoon. My boys buy themselves cold drinks and make their way to the same bench where I sat with Melly when I first met her. 

It seems so long ago. 

“I wonder who died?” Luke asks in between slurps after he’s counted all the brown decaying bouquets over on the riverbank.

“A little girl drowned here a week or so ago,” Craig tells him.  She moves silently through both their hearts. 

Luke shakes his head. 

“What?” Craig asks him. 

Murky things are in Luke’s heart, things he wants to discuss with Craig but can’t quite express. 

“You must have been pretty cut up when Sean died,” he starts.

Gilmore takes a sip of his drink. 

“He was sick for a long time. And he was in terrible pain. He really suffered.” 

“You must have been sad when he died,” Luke tries again. 

Craig just nods, and takes another little taste from the bottle. 

Talk to him, Taffy, I urge. He’s trying to talk to you about something really important.

“I – well, we both knew he was going to die,” he starts, delicately picking his way around it. “It was almost worse, actually, when we found out what he had, how sick he really was.”

Luke starts to speak again, but Taffy’s got the hang of it now.

“We’d become really good friends. I was in a pretty bad way, and he’d been great. You know how people say they’ll be there for you and all that, well, he actually was. It was a big deal, as far as I was concerned. The break up had been bad, but we’d been pretty happy for a long time before that.” Craig shrugs. “Well, I was.” 

I was too, darling, I assure him. 

“Why’d you break up?” Luke knows there’s something he hasn’t been told. 

I slept with a hot Irish man, I tell Luke. 

“We had different ideas about things,” Taffy says generously. “He  - we just saw things differently. We weren’t right for each other, and it just started to fall apart.” 

Faithful to the end. You can tell him Taffy, I don’t mind. 

Luke, meanwhile, is brimming with curiosity, his heart is filled with question marks. 

“Did you see other people?” 

Craig laughs a little bitterly. “I didn’t,” he says quietly, looking down at the juice he’s holding. 

“Did he?” Luke asks tentatively. 

Craig just nods. 

“Whatcha do?” 

“Nothing,” Taffy says, still looking down. “What can you do, when some one does that? It didn’t mean anything to him, I know that, and he said as much himself.” He takes another sip. “That’s what I meant, about having different views.  Sean didn’t believe in monogamy. I do.” 

“So do I,” Luke says quickly, fiercely. “I think it’s really important. I couldn’t be in an open relationship.” 

Gilmore looks up, rather surprised, not so much by the sentiment but the passion with which it is delivered.  

“That’s why I hated what I did to you. And to Kerry, lying to you both. I hated myself for it, cheating like that.” 

“You’re not the first to make that mistake,” Craig assures him. 

“The psychiatrist said that too,” Luke smiles. “But that’s no excuse. I shouldn’t have done it. I wished I hadn’t.” He stares straight ahead, down towards the rotting flowers.

“It’s done now,” Craig says.

But Twinkie is silent. 

“What?” Craig asks. “Tell me. What?” 

Luke swallows and steels himself. “Would you have been sad if I died?” 

The dark eyes are heavy and deep. “I honestly don’t think I would have ever got over it.”  

Luke holds his stare; it seems to make him more confident to speak more candidly. “I really wanted to die,” he says. “It seemed like such a good idea at the time.” 

They both silent for moment.

“Do you still feel like that? That you want to die?” 

Twinkie’s face is calm, given the gravity of the topic. 

“No. That’s the strange thing. It was so strong last week – it’s all I thought about at the end – and now I can’t remember what exactly felt so good about it.” 

Gilmore’s heart shows tiny orange spots of alarm. “Promise me something,” he asks as he still holds Luke’s eyes.

Luke’s heart sways towards him, and he nods.

“I want you tell me if you ever feel like that again. Okay? I don’t care if you hate me, or if you’re not talking to me, or you’re seeing someone, or anything. I want you to promise that if you ever feel like that again you’ll tell me.” 

Luke smiles at him.  “Okay.” 

“Promise?”

“I promise.” 

“What do you think happens when you die?” Luke asks after while. 

Craig shrugs. “Nothing. I think you’re dead and that’s it.”

(O ye of little faith! Just you wait!) 

“What about you? What do you think happens?” he asks Luke. 

“I can’t work it out. I mean, I don’t believe in heaven and hell, not all the time.” He takes a swig of his juice. “For a while there but, I thought this was hell, living here with all this stuff.” 

Craig understands what he means.

“Then when I decided I was going to – well, when I wanted to, you know…” Craig knows, so he continues, “I got worried that maybe the pain wouldn’t stop when I died. That not only would it still hurt, but that I could see how much everyone was hurt too.” 

“Then why did you do it?” 

“That’s the thing, after a while it hurts so badly you’ll do anything to get away from it. It doesn’t matter to you what happens afterwards. You just want it to stop hurting now.” 

“You looked like you were in agony when I found you,” Craig says softly, very gently reaching out and touching the tiny wisps of hair at Luke’s hairline. 

“It really hurt. Not just where I cut myself, but everything, inside and out.” Luke leans his head slightly towards the pleasant touch. “What made you come that day? I mean, what made you come at all...why...”

“I don’t know,” Craig says truthfully. “I’d been thinking about you a lot. I mean, you were on my mind since the last time I saw you, at the hospital, but after Sean died, it was like I couldn’t think of anything else. I just got more and more worried about you.” He takes another sip and gathers his thoughts. “I just had a strong feeling about you. I missed you, I guess. Don’t know. I was worried.” 

Luke is very impressed by this. “That’s nice to hear,” he says gently. 

“Sean used to say that when you like someone you can tune in to them, and know what they like or when they need you.” 

Did I? I must have been a damn site smarter than I realised. 

Luke laughs slightly. “Kerry said the same thing. Y’ know, that we should be able to understand each other on a deeper level.”  He moves his body a little closer to Craig. “Didn’t work for me. I had no idea what she was thinking, not ever.” 

They both chuckle at that. 

“You miss her?” Craig asks. 

Luke shakes his head. “I know it sounds horrible, but I don’t mean it to be. I mean, even I when I thought I was wild about her I never was. I mean, if I hadn’t met you, and I was going to pretend I wasn’t gay, and marry someone, a woman, it would have been someone different.” 

Craig raises his eyebrows. “Like who?”

Luke makes a cute smirky face and Gilmore’s heart flips on cue. 

“I dunno...” Twinkie’s embarrassed. 

“Who?” Gilmore presses gently, tipping towards him slightly. 

“Don’t laugh. You have to promise you won’t laugh,” Luke warns him.

“Promise,” Gilmore says with a straight face. His heart is filled with different women he knows, even some famous ones. Posh Spice, for God’s sake, Kylie Minogue. 

“Someone like Polly,” Luke says, his face rising red. 

An image of a cute blonde woman comes up on both their hearts. 

“’Cept, of course, she would have realised I was a poof,” and they laugh together again. 

Luke’s looking at him closely now, wondering about Taffy. 

“Who would you marry?” he asks before he takes another taste of his drink.

Craig doesn’t miss a beat. “Reg,” he says and Luke laughs so hard he nearly spits juice everywhere. 

“No, seriously, I just can’t imagine. You know, I’ve tried to think if I had to, you know, for fear of death, marry a woman, but I can’t think of anyone.” 

A sinister little glint flashes in Luke’s eye, and a clear image of Girl Germs shows on his heart. 

“No way,” Craig says in mock outrage. “Not bloody Gina.”

“How’d you know that’s who I was thinking!” Luke exclaims. 

And they look each other, a slight awareness that they’re already tuned into each other. Well, I must have been right. 

“What are you like in relationships?” Luke asks.

Craig doesn’t quite get what he wants to know, so he takes a punt. 

“I’m great value. Fabulous!” he grins at him. “I’ve got references.”

Twinkie laughs, his face bright at this glimpse of Gilmore’s playful streak. 

“No, I mean, some people are really laid back, some people are…” Luke looks across at him, half smiling, half rueful. “I’m really possessive.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” my territorial Taffy remarks casually. His heart is flaming. 

“Are you?” Luke asks, looking down. 

Is he what, I tell him. You watch yourself Twinkie, he’ll have you branded with his initials in no time. 

“Bit,” Craig says, giving himself away. 

Luke smiles to himself. “Good.”

And the pair of them, these useless poofs, sit there in the heat blushing. Listen, I berate them both, you could be over there, under that gorgeous shady tree, snogging to your hearts’ content, instead of sitting here like a pair of schoolgirls. 

“Do you want to sit in the shade over there?” Craig asks innocently. He points to a secluded spot, shrouded by the canopy of a huge oak tree.

Luke thinks this is a great idea. 

They settle down together in the cool shade and lie side by side, staring at the sky through the lace patterns of the leaves above them. 

I’m about to lie alongside them when I hear a familiar little voice. 

“Sean! I’m still dwowned!” 

It’s Melly and Nancy, strolling through the park. They’re following a pair of women, one of whom is heavily pregnant. 

“Hello!” I’m actually very happy to see them. Talk amongst yourselves, I tell Luke and Craig. 

“That’s my mummy, and she’s with my other mummy who’s my auntie too!”  Melly tells me delightedly, pointing at the two women they’re following.

I look to Nancy for clarification in this rather confusing point. 

“Melly’s father’s sister. She’s due in about ten days.” 

“That’s great!” I say to Melly. “She looks like a good mum.” 

“And she lives close and she’s got chickens,” Melly tells me gravely. 

“Chickens are nice! You can feed them for her.” 

Melly makes a mean little face. “I don’t like chickens,” she tells me in a low voice. 

“Yes you do,” Nancy reminds her. “You told me you loved the chickens.” 

“Sometimes,” Melly says vaguely. She’s watching her mother laying a fresh bunch of flowers at the edge of the river. “Mummy’s got flowers for me,” she says without a hint of sadness. 

“They’re very pretty.” 

Melly nods, and wanders over to get a better look. 

“How’s your friend in Wales?” Nancy asks politely.

I point to Taffy and Twinkie, who are flirting outrageously under the old oak tree. 

“Is that the boy who was depressed?” Nancy asks. “What happened to his arms?” 

I tell her the whole story as we watch Melly with her old mother and her new mother. 

Nancy nods, impressed. “You did good,” she says with her calm smile. 

Aw, shucks! 

“He’s a good man,” I answer. 

“He’s a got a gorgeous heart,” she says, watching the two of them laughing under the tree. “So’s his friend. They kind of match, their hearts, don’t they?” 

I look at the cherry and iridescent coral over in the distance. Nancy’s right, the colours go together beautifully. You can see it more clearly when they further away like this. 

“Have you found a mother yet?” Nancy asks. 

I shake my head. “I’ve left it pretty late.” 

“Are you staying behind? I mean, to be his angel?” 

“No,” I say as clearly as I can. “He doesn’t need an angel. He’s got Luke.” 

“So I see. So what will you do? Just wait ‘til your number’s up?” 

“I guess. I can’t find out much about that. Do you know anything?” 

“Probably the same as you. You just wait near the spot you died, as close as you can to three weeks since your death, and you get born to the nearest person giving birth.” Nancy shrugs. “That’s all I heard.” 

“More than I knew,” I smile. “Thanks.”

“It’s funny, isn’t it, how we all know bits and pieces. Have you noticed that no one actually knows exactly where the information comes from? We all seem to know just a bit and pass it around.” 

She’s right. I hadn’t thought of this before, but that’s all that’s happened since I’ve died. I knew a bit, people told me other bits, but there’s no confirmation on what’s right and what’s wrong. 

A bit like being alive, actually. 

“What about you?” I ask as Melly runs back up towards us. “Have you got a mum?”

Nancy smiles delightedly. “I’ve found a pair of lesbians! They‘re the happiest women. One’s a potter, and the other is a scientist.”

This makes me laugh. I love dyke girls.

“Should be great,” I say. “Never met a lez couple I didn’t like or who didn’t burn candles at every opportunity.” Nancy laughs with me.  “And I guess it would be nice for a woman, to be raised by two women.”

Nancy shakes her head with a marvellous knowing look. “I was at my final ultrasound yesterday. I’m going to be a boy!” 

This is amazing. “Can you do that?” 

“Sure! Your spirit doesn’t have a gender, just your body. And I’ve always wondered if it’s as good as it seems, being a boy.” 

“I liked it!” I tell her. 

“My mummies are going,” Melly says a little urgently. 

“We’ll have to get going,” Nancy says, following the insistent three year old ghost. “Hope I met you again, Sean.” 

“Maybe in the next life!” 

“I hope so. Good luck.” 

I watch them go, two live women completely unaware that two ghosts are following them. Before they’re out of sight, Melly turns around as if to wave, but instead blows me a kiss goodbye. 

“Bye, sweetie,” I say softly.

********************

I sit a few feet away from Craig and Luke, who are having a delightful animated conversation. I can’t quite hear them, but I don’t have too. It’s all over their hearts. 

They’re sitting up now, facing each other, Luke talking to Gilmore who is smiling, anticipating. A little honey-coloured hamster is running over both their hearts. 

Mr bloody Piggy. 

It gets worse. Craig talks to Luke, who is wide-eyed interested, and soon a little school of seahorses bobs across Luke’s heart as he laughs. 

Now he’s telling Craig something, a detailed story that seems to involve Africa. Taffy has wide open plains in his heart, then he adds water, then a huge flock of flamingos strut across the front of his heart. Luke’s still talking though, trying to explain something with his bandaged hands. The flamingos in Taffy’s heart all stand still expectantly while Luke explains something, and then walk forward – this time with their legs on the right way. 

I’m starting to wonder if I’ve instigated a meeting of minds here, or just brought together two people who really need professional help. 

But they’re so happy, here in the heat in the late afternoon, amongst scores of other people enjoying the summer, amongst the fragrant plants, not far from the brown river. Their heads are very close, they’re exchanging tiny little kisses, almost if they’re testing each other out, and then their lips seem to slip together. Gilmore gently puts his hand on Luke’s shoulder, and I see their hearts just faintly meld together. Coral and cherry. It is very quick, and so very pretty. 

*******************

Later in this exquisite summer evening they walk back to Gilmore’s place, much more relaxed than when they left. The happier they are together, the more I realise I have to leave them soon.

“I’ll call mum when I get back to your place,” Luke says. 

“Sure.” But Craig is worrying about Luke staying the night. 

Luke, oddly enough, seems to sense this. His little heart weeds are reaching over to Craig. “Do you mind if I stay with you tonight?” 

“If you want,” Craig says, “But don’t feel you have to. I mean, there’s no pressure, we’ve got lots of time.” 

Luke nods, but needs more reassurance. “I really want to. Do you want me to?”

Oh, if ever a question begged an answer, I groan at them both. 

“Of course I really want you to. You know I do. I just don’t want you to think...” Taffy takes a breath. “It’s really soon. I’m not expecting anything. You don’t have to do anything.” 

“I can’t do anything,” Luke sighs, holding out both his hands. “So you’ll have to do everything.” He says this with a hopeful gleam in his eye. 

Craig says nothing, but flashes his own gleaming eyes straight back at him, his heart flipping like a Mexican jumping bean.

************************

I’ve only got a few more hours. I know I should be out on a last minute dash for my new mother, but I can’t bear to leave him, not yet, not now. 

Not while he’s cooking Luke lasagne. 

Luke feels a bit awkward, standing around the kitchen. He wants to be with Craig, but he thinks he’s in the way. 

Taffy, he wants to watch and talk to you, but he’s worried he’s being a nuisance. Give him a hoik up on the bench. 

“Want to sit on the bench?” he asks Luke who is leaning against the cupboards. 

Luke wants the cuddle that comes with the assisted lift on to the bench. Gilmore carefully puts his arms around his waist and Luke works with him as he lifts him to sit on the counter space. Luke needs no encouragement, resting one of his bandaged hands on Craig’s shoulder and moving in to his face. 

This time their hearts meld together more gradually, the two colours still very strong together, not yet blending as one, but getting close. 

Your mince is burning, I tell the snogging cook. 

“Mince,” he whispers to Luke, tearing himself away.

They chatter on as Craig lays sheets of pasta, grates cheese, peels the potatoes. 

Oh, the potato peels – forgot all about this one. The Welsh chips! 

Luke watches, curious and nervous, as Craig carefully gathers the potato skins and throws them in to the spitting oil with the hunks of potatoes. 

“It’s fantastic,” he tells the uncertain Twinkie. “They go all crunchy. Trust me.” 

They’re actually really nice, I assure Luke. But don’t let him tell you they’re Welsh. The French were doing it for years. 

**********************

“Id help you wash up, but…” 

“Any bloody excuse,” Gilmore growls at him with tenderness as he gathers up the plates. 

“The potato skins were great. Are they really Welsh?” 

Don’t you lie to the poor boy, Taffy, I warn him. Tell him the truth. 

Taffy strikes a compromise. “Well, the French think they invented them, but it was really the Welsh.”

Luke stays and talks with him while he washes up. 

I sit at the window, watching as the light fades on my last day with Gilmore. 

I have to say my goodbyes soon. 

They’re so happy, just being together. I don’t think Gilmore will even notice when I’m gone. 

*************************

“You’ve got Astral Weeks! I love that album!” 

Flamingos, seahorses, Welsh chips and now Astral Weeks. Oh, you two are going to be so happy. Twinkie is sitting cross-legged in front of the shelves of cds, moving through them as quickly as his bound hands will allow. 

Craig sits behind him, ready to catch him if he tips over, occasionally rubbing his face against Luke’s hair. When he does this both their hearts light up bright and glassy, as if they’ve been varnished. 

“This,” Twinkie says with dire intensity as holds another one of Craig’s cds, “is my favourite album.” 

Madman Across the Water. Elton John, 1970. Oh Puh-leeeeeeeeeze. 

“Mine too,” Craig agrees. “Next to Astral Weeks.”

Well, I suppose there had to be someone on this earth that likes your dreary music too, I tell Gilmore. 

“You know, we’ve got a lot in common,” Luke says after his been through every last disc. “I thought we were really different, but we’re pretty similar in some ways.” 

Pretty singular, more like it. Astral Weeks, of all things. Perhaps it’s best I’m going. 

“I’m glad you’ve got such perfect taste,” Craig says as he bends down to kiss him. 

And now, in the last of the light on the hottest night this year, they have everything to themselves. Everything I wanted Gilmore to have is here, not quite as I planned, but it’s Luke, and he’s eager and willing, turning his body now to face Craig, absolutely no doubt about what he wants. He kisses him deeply, holds him to him as best his sore arms will allow, sighs very softly when Craig kisses his face and moves slowly down the sensitive skin of his neck. 

“What?” Luke moans as Gilmore slows down. It’s getting dark, they haven’t got the lights on, and they strain to see each other’s faces.

In Taffy’s heart there’s dozens of anxious images of Luke cut and bloody, upset and weepy in the hospital, even in his uniform, snapping at Craig with angry eyes.

“Maybe we should wait,” Craig wonders, holding him close, stroking his head.

“I've been waiting for months,” Luke points out, not arguing or disregarding him, but genuinely trying to let him know he’s all right.  His heart is thick with Craig, the sight of him, the rich scent of his skin and hair, the taste of him.

“It’s really soon,” Gilmore says softly. “You’re still getting over a pretty bad illness.”

“I’m really okay,” Luke assures him. “And I really, really, really, really want to.” 

They smile against one another’s open mouths. The scary images of Luke in Taffy’s heart are replaced with the image of Luke as he is now, wanting, vulnerable and eminently desirable.

Twinkie is pushing up against him, kissing his throat. “My hands are bandaged,” he pleads with a husky pathetic voice. “Help me out.” 

Lust rushes through Gilmore in an instant, the notion of helping Luke out with this rather critical operation scorching his heart.

“Not here,” he almost pants against Luke’s skin. 

“Huh?” Luke is lost under the feeling of the mouth. 

“My knee’s sore. Your arms. Bed,” is the best Taffy can do. 

“Bed,” Luke agrees. He moves his face back, his eyes half closed, his face glowing with perspiration and desire. 

They’re a pair, Luke with his heavily bandaged arms, Taffy with the elastic bandage on his knee. The walking wounded. Taffy lifts Luke’s tank off gently, and can’t seem to let him go, holding up close against him, kissing him slowly, moving his fingers down his back. 

Luke’s using the little bit of finger tips he has to get his pants off; Taffy’s whispering to him now, undoing the pants himself, pulling them away, Luke is using his sore arms gingerly to try and get Taffy’s kit off. 

For a moment I think I should just leave, give them a bit of privacy, but It’s compelling viewing.  And I’m dead. This might be last opportunity to see a bit of genuine passion. 

At first it’s amusing, I suppose – Twinkie, hormonal young buck he is, hot and eager, and Gilmore is desperately trying to remain focused, calm – but the more he tries to concentrate, the more frazzled he gets. It’s so sweet. He’s tenderly kissing Luke’s sternum, gripping his hips, making it very obvious to the writhing Twinkie that help is very close at hand, but Luke places his two swaddled hands at either side of Craig’s head and brings him back up. He whispers something in Craig’s ear that sets his heart racing, and he carefully wraps his arms around Luke, laying his weight on top of him slowly. Almost immediately Luke starts to thrusts into him. It surprises Taffy, who calls out at the first powerful contact and responds instinctively, thrusting back, clasping Luke to him, whispering in his ear. 

It’s when Luke answers, whispering back, that I see it, the most beautiful thing I will see before I go. Luke’s and Craig’s hearts are coated with this incredibly heavy glaze, clear and thick as sap, almost as blinding as white light. It’s impossible to say whose heart glazes first, but it intensifies the brilliant colours of their hearts and forms a powerful bright bond between them. 

It is, of course, the colour of love. True love is the colour of diamonds. 

And when I recognise that colour, the absence of colour that is in fact all colours mixed together at a dizzying speed, I can feel it. I can feel the endless longing that Gilmore has for him, the infinite tenderness and concern in which he holds Luke, all the pain he’s endured for him, the vast satisfaction he has now, the mingled passion and adoring surrender Luke evokes in him. 

For a slice of a second I despair that Craig never loved me like that.

But then I see Luke, saying Craig’s name over and over straight into his eyes, his body wild and contorted.  I can feel the powerful overwhelming need he has for him, how badly he wants him and how badly he wants Craig to love him, the searing pain and remorse mixed haphazardly with respect, a love that feels like worship. 

And I know that I never loved Craig the way Luke loves him. 

They come within seconds of each other, luminous inside and out on this stifling hot evening, unable to stop telling each other how much in love they are, unable to push their bodies close enough, shaking with the intensity of the physical and emotional feeling. Craig’s huge shoulders are heaving as he tries to recover his breath; he rolls slightly to the side of Luke, and I can see the slick oily film of each other spread across their bellies. 

It was an extraordinary thing to witness, extraordinary to see them looking at each other immediately after. There’s nothing blind about love. It sees and hears everything. 

It’s a nice feeling to know exactly what love is. It makes me certain that there is no room here for me anymore. 

I leave them nuzzling and whispering, ready to say my final goodbyes.

************************

The startling revelation at Gilmore’s bedside could not be in greater contrast to the sombre lonely scene I find in my father’s house. 

Apparently he and my stepmother now have separate rooms - certainly she is not in bed with him. He’s alone, this old man in a cotton vest, random silvery wiry hairs on his sagging chest, breathing uncomfortably through his half-opened mouth. 

The good taste of the room around him. The bland expensive furniture, the imported sheets on the bed, the tasteful cotton throws in pale, unspeaking summer shades. The complete emptiness of it all. 

His heart is quiet. There’s paperwork, his office, his Jaguar, a corgi we used to have when I was growing up, some bottles of wine – all these fairly uninteresting things in no specific order. No people, not even my stepmother. 

“Hello Father,” I say respectfully. I have to be careful, to do this just right. 

Let’s go to the country together, I whisper.

Almost immediately an image of me as he remembers me burns in his heart. I concentrate on that, and slowly feel myself drawn towards him, through a dark dim tunnel just as the paramedic said I would, and next thing I know I’m sitting in a beautiful garden, some kind of country estate, talking to my father. 

*******************

My father seemed more surprised than anything. Not happy or delighted or even mildly amused. Just surprised. 

It’s a slow lonely walk back to Gilmore’s. The dark, for the first time, is incredibly lonely. There’s no one about, hardly any noise. It’s as if the heat has melted 

every trace of vitality in London.

I feel exhausted. 

Taffy and Twinkie are asleep in the warm night, lying across the messy bedclothes. Both their hearts are now set in that heavy glaze. Craig lays stretched on his belly, his long arm slung protectively over Luke, who is stretched out on his back beside him. I can’t see Craig’s face, which is turned towards Luke, but Luke looks peaceful and calm. 

I start with Luke.

Well, Twinkie, I say as settle down beside him, I have to go soon, but there are some things I need to tell you before I go. 

First, you have to know that you’re really lucky to be who you are and what you are in a country that lets you live your life as you see fit. I know you’ve had a hard time Twinkie, and I know how badly it hurt you. But being dead is never going to make it any different. Be proud of yourself. There are so many lovely things about you, and they will get lovelier as you get older. Don’t deny your friends and your marvellous mum and darling Gilmore the opportunity to see how great you can be. 

And it’s beautiful Twinkie, being alive and in love is beautiful. Look after your life and love carefully, and never take them for granted.

Second, now that you know who and what you are, don’t ever settle for plain tolerance. You tolerate blisters and mouth ulcers. Make sure, for the rest of your life, you fight for acceptance and respect. It’s really important, and you’ll only get it when you accept and respect your self. 

I look at him sleeping, his coral heart swaying gently. I have no idea if he can hear me, but it’s making me feel better.

Okay, that’s the political manifesto over with. Now let’s talk Gilmore. 

Where to start. 

He’s a catch, Twinkie, and you didn’t even have to try. You snagged him first go without batting an eyelid. Look after him too. He looks like he’s strong and infallible, but he has lots of tender spots, and come to think of it, most of them revolve around you. If you don’t want him, be honest with him and let him go. He’s too trustworthy for his own good, and he’ll never suspect you of lying to him. Don’t break his heart this way. 

If you’re going to keep him, let me give you some maintenance tips. 

He loves having his shoulders rubbed. 

He loves trifle. 

He likes to hear about what you’re doing, and he likes to talk to you about what he’s doing. 

He likes watching movies.

He likes to get all the housework done before he’ll do any of these things. 

He’ll stand by you to the end of the earth, so if you have any problems, just tell him. 

He hates running out of milk. 

He won’t eat sago or parsnip. 

He hates polyester. 

He really likes liquorice all-sorts, but he’ll never admit to that. 

Ditto hot soggy chips. 

He’s got a bit of a phobia about centipedes but you can never mention that. He’s okay with spiders. 

He’s very affectionate, and he’ll tell you a lot of things through affectionate gestures. Make sure you pay attention. 

Luke barely stirs as I speak to him, but there are little flickers of Craig all over his heart, so I keep going.

Don’t wait until you die to show him how much he means to you. Tell him every day. 

Look after him, Luke. He’ll last you a lifetime if you take care of him. 

Well, that was the easy bit. Now the hard bit, the bit I’ve been dreading.

I move over to the other side of the bed and hover a little over Gilmore. His big cherry heart is peaceful; he sleeps heavily and silently. 

I concentrate heard on Craig’s heart. 

“Go into the garden, Craig,” I say to him softly. “Into the garden.” And when I see the garden start to show in his heart, I focus and he draws me in, whooshing down that dim dark tunnel for seconds or minutes or hours, I can’t tell, and then suddenly I’m sitting on a seat in a beautiful rose garden, smiling at him. 

I’m in his dreams. 

“Hey!” I call to him.

“Hello Sean!” Craig is delighted, overjoyed to see me. His first response is to stretch his arms to me, but we can’t touch. I have to distract him. 

“You came through the trees?” I ask him. 

He puts his arms down straight way, but still stares at me, his face pure and happy. “You look fantastic! So healthy!” he beams. 

“I’m really well,” I assure him. “I’m fine now.” 

“What are you doing here?” 

“I’ve come to say goodbye.” 

His face grows a little bleak, confused. 

“Are you going?” 

“Soon,” I say, “I can’t stay. So I’ve come to let you know that I’m better and really happy now.” 

“Can’t we talk?” He’s getting a bit too sad. 

“We don’t have to,” I tell him, cheery and bright. “We always talked!”

“I miss you so much,” he says earnestly. 

“I know. I know, love.” 

“I love you!” he says, his eyes full of tenderness and sincerity.

“And I love you too! I’m better now. Go in through the garden there. I won’t be long.”  
 

He looks at me, still a little confused, and for one awful second I’m terrified he won’t go. But something in his heart catches his attention, and he walks away noiselessly through the most perfect garden he could have imagined.

And that’s it.  I think deeply and leave his heart, my Taffy, for all time. 

I stand beside him once more, exhausted, ready to go.

What could I tell you, Taffy, what could be the last thing I could say to you? 

“Goodbye, my love,” is the best I can do.

*************************

I take my seat back on the windowsill and watch him stirring next to Luke. In his heart Craig’s still walking through the garden which, in the odd way of dreams, now appears overgrown and scrubby. 

But I can’t bear to see him, not anymore. 

So I stare out in to the street that is half defined in the watery morning light, waiting for my number to come to come up, waiting to be born again to someone who I can only hope will be happy to see me. 

There’s no one. The street is eerily quiet until a minicab pulls up just across the road. The driver is lost, he’s checking the A-Z. 

He has passengers. In the backseat I can see a black man leaning back, supporting a beautiful black woman. She appears to be in pain, grimacing, her mouth open, her teeth a startling vibrant white against her face. 

Why do they look familiar? They look like I know them. I move a little closer, to see who they are. 

The Sudanese couple! Craig and I used to see them when he’d take me for walks, when I could still walk. They were lovely, so cheerful, so in love, so happy together. 

She was so pregnant. She must be ready to have her baby, it was due around this time –

Her heart is the colour of a sunrise, a beautiful orange gold, and his is sea blue, blue as the deepest ocean under the brightest sun.  Their hearts flow and ebb in time and I’m mesmerised by the glorious bright emerald green they form together, as exotic and innovative and full of life as any colour you’ll ever see. 

Her beautiful noble face is tipped back, radiant with heat, almost roaring, and suddenly my whole life and death explodes into a magnificent powdery burst of nothingness, everything disappearing as if I’m soaring above the earth.  When it clears all I can see is a tiny light flashing deep in her belly, a tender beckoning light that draws me closer and closer, coming in to land with my hands outstretched to touch the face I would recognise anywhere. 

My beautiful mother!    

**************************

Across London in a dignified neighbourhood, an older gentlemen wakes up suddenly from a flimsy unsatisfying sleep and a curious dream.

He wraps himself in an expensive, tasteful silk gown, slides his old veiny feet into supple leather slippers and pads downstairs to his well-appointed kitchen. 

Nothing is unusual. He plugs in the kettle, turns up the heat, lifts a large Worcester mug from the stainless steel trimmed cupboards. 

He drinks his tea black, hunched over the spotless breakfast counter. It is completely silent, so the noise of tiny drops on the smooth surface surprise him at first. 

One, two, then no counting as the tears stream down his face, his heart choking with painful binding indigo as finally he weeps uncontrollably for his only son, dead now three weeks. 

*************************

Craig, too, wakes up suddenly from a curious dream; fresh clear tears have started bubbling from his eyes before he’s fully conscious. He shudders a little in his grief and this rouses Luke, who’s dozing beside him. 

“What’s up?” Luke’s alarmed, forgetting the pain in his arms as he tries to move and comfort him. 

“I dreamt about Sean,” Craig says, greatly distressed, not entirely awake. “I dreamt he came to see me, and he looked great, so healthy,” - but he is overtaken by quick jerking sobs he can’t control. 

“Oh, darling,” Luke says quickly, carefully drawing Craig over to his arms. “Why did it make you sad?’ Was it a bad dream?”

Craig shakes his head. “No, it was really nice, he was really healthy and happy,” -he sniffs a bit – “It was if he just came to say goodbye.” And new springs of tears rush forth. Craig closes his eyes tight and hard, trying to will them to stop, but the feeling of loss and grief overwhelms him. 

In his heart he sees Sean again, not as he was but as he remembers him, a faint nostalgic glimpse, the small shots of colour, light and pale scents that memories are.

Now, before him, Luke’s warm smiling face and concerned eyes hold him in the present. 

“Okay?” he asks Craig as he very theatrically mops up the tears with his bandaged hands. This makes Craig smile despite his grief.

“I’ve heard about those kinds of dreams,” Luke tells him softly, “dreams where people come and say good bye.” 

Craig hasn’t, but he listens carefully, keen to know that it was as genuine as he feels. 

“Apparently they’re pretty common,” Luke soothes, now stroking Craig’s head with his paw. “People who have been sick, or died in really sad circumstances, coming back to let you know they’re all right.” 

Craig nods. He feels a little better now. 

And for Luke, it’s important for him to see where he stands in Craig’s heart, that there is a history there, that other loves and other lives held court long before him. He sees clearly now how lucky he is to have centre stage in the generous crimson heart, and appreciates for the first time the real pleasure and privilege of holding Craig so tight in the core of his own heart. 

“You okay?” he asks him presently, gently kissing the warm bristly cheek. 

“Yeah,” Craig answers quietly. “Bit sad. I’m sorry.” 

“No need to apologise,” Luke grins at him, a little naughty. “It’s nice to have you snotty and unstrung for a change.” 

This makes Craig laugh a bit, and the tears start to ease. He wraps himself around Luke properly – mindful of his arms – and kisses his chest with gratitude. He wants to tell him how much it means, how important it is, to have Luke living and breathing next to him, but he has no words for it. 

Luke does. 

He blots the last of Craig’s tears with his gauzy hands, and whispers to him the same thing he whispered months ago, eons ago, on his stag night. 

“It’s good here, just the two of us, isn’t it?” 

 

**Chapter 17**

 

 

Minnie is waiting at Covet Garden Station in late October, looking for her mother. 

It’s been hard for Minnie. She’s glad she’s dead, and she can’t wait to find a new mother. But not just anybody, not this time. 

Minnie wants it all. She wants to be dressed in tiny cashmere cardigans, she wants an expensive birthday party every year, she wants to grow in luxury and the contentment it brings – Notting Hill, Hampstead Heath, Chelsea. Her own bathroom. A nanny. An expensive involved school uniform. 

You’ve probably seen Minnie on the streets, perhaps asking you if you could spare fifty pence, smelly, unwashed and long unwanted. Two weary police officers found her cold and hard in a door way near Charing Cross only four nights ago; before the authorities hauled her into the pauper’s grave down near Golders Green the medical examiner hastily scrawled Cardiac Arrest on her death certificate. 

Nobody claimed her. Nobody prayed. 

Minnie doesn’t care, not anymore. She spends her days watching for wealthy young pregnant women, following them home, checking out their houses, their spouses, their friends, their bathrooms, the new nursery. She has chosen three potential mothers thus far; she expects to cull from a list of twelve before her number is up. 

At the moment she’s taking a break, watching the spectrum of hearts down at the markets near Neal Place. She can see Luke and Craig wandering around, looking for Christmas presents.  She spotted Luke first, scowling at a tall handsome blonde man who was making eyes at Craig as he perused a stall of ceramic tiles. Craig gave no impression that he saw the blonde, but Minnie can see, in his lovely cherry heart, that he saw, and that he saw also Luke’s reaction. 

“Did you chase him off?” Craig whispers in Luke’s ear when the blonde man discretely walks away.

 Luke smirks, but admits nothing, just moves his body closer to Craig’s for a brief second. 

Well, look at that, chuckles Minnie as the two hearts meld for a moment and become a perfect glazed shade of glittering garnet. That’s love for you. 

They walk back to the station, oblivious to Minnie and the other glimmers in the air. 

They carry lots of bags, presents for friends and family, a couple of things for their flat. (Little does Luke know but Craig has already found his first Christmas present, a light blue tshirt with dark blue trim and a very apt slogan across the front. It was hanging amongst selection of tshirts with various epithets – “Mr Sexy”, Mr Narky”, Mr Sleepy”…Craig was delighted, as Luke tried on a pair of jeans, to find “Mr Piggy”. 

“Mr Piggy,” he chuckled to himself. 

But Luke won’t know this until Christmas morning. )

He has mostly moved in with Craig now. All his clothes are there, all his cds, the drawers Craig has allocated to him are maniacally neat and he shares Craig’s bed. He visits his mother frequently, she drops by occasionally, and Luke has left a few things at her home, just in case. 

Both Craig and Mrs Ashton have privately agreed that Luke can make the transition from one home to the other at his own pace. 

Craig thought Luke might to live alone for a while, to get used to own company, stretch his wings that way, but Luke could not have been less interested. “I’ll just spend all my time with you anyway,” he said. “Besides, someone has to keep an eye on you.” 

Craig said nothing, but learnt over the weeks that Luke did indeed keep an eye on him.  A little possessive, Craig learnt to his pleasure. A tiny bit territorial. Affectionate, concerned, always chatting, always listening. 

A very satisfying partner all round. 

They talk all the time. Craig encourages him, asks him about things, seeks his opinions on everything from whether they should buy the fatty American mayonnaise (“definitely,” said Mr Piggy) to ideas he has for his racism strategies for Shoreditch, where he will be stationed from the second week of January. Luke is responsive, enjoying the talk, trusting Craig implicitly. If you ask either of them the best part of their relationship they invariably answer, at any stage in their long time together, the honesty. Definitely the honesty. 

Luke works three days a week at the London office of the Mind charity while he continues leave without pay from the Met. He is undecided what he will do next. He discusses it with Craig frequently, whenever he has a new idea. Currently he leans towards pre-school teaching, early childhood development. Craig is, as always, supportive and enthusiastic. 

“You can tell all the kids your name’s Mr Piggy,” he suggested. “They’ll love you straight away.” 

“You’re such a comedian,” Luke replied with a stony face. 

At the moment, though, they’re walking home from the station, back to their flat. They stop to pick up some milk and the cumbersome papers; Luke is helping a small white overexcited poodle pup that is tied up to a pole when Craig comes out of the shop overloaded.

“Put the dog down and give me a hand,” Craig says with a pretend growl. 

“Poor little thing’s all tangled up his leash,” Luke answers, struggling to keep the stupid yappy pup from strangling itself again. “He keeps getting his paw caught in his collar, then chases his tail  - I’m worried he’s going to choke himself.”

A young woman comes out of the drycleaners next door while Luke is unwrapping the little dog a second time. The dog yaps and twists continuously, making it difficult to keep it untangled.

“Oh, thanks,” she says, struggling with five freshly dry cleaned garments. “He does that all the time.” She watches as Luke frees the wild puppy and hands the leash to her. 

“I thought poodles were supposed to be smart,” Luke smiles at her. 

“Not this one,” she groans. “It’s a disgrace to poodles everywhere.” And she walks off carefully, trying to get the noisy dimwitted pup to walk beside her in a straight path. 

“Well, that’s what happens when you get a poncy little dog, I suppose,” Luke says to Craig when she’s out of earshot. 

“Exactly,” he agrees. “She should have got a guinea pig.” 

Luke laughs, and they continue talking about animals in general, and then police dogs in particular, until Craig runs into some old acquaintances. 

“Hello!” “Hello!” the lovely Sudanese couple says happily when they recognise Craig. 

“Hallo!” he says, surprised and happy to see them. Well, they were so nice. “Oh! You’ve had your baby!” 

“My beautiful son!” the father says proudly, holding the soft little dark bundle up for Craig to see. “He was born in a taxi!” 

Craig and Luke lean over to meet Mako, nearly three months old, sleepy and gathered warm and close to his father in a heavy woollen baby sling. 

“Congratulations,” Craig says warmly to the proud parents. “When was he born?” 

“July 29th,” his mother says. “He was very quick! He was a good baby to his mother,” she laughs. 

“He’s cute,” Luke says. Only Craig hears the tiny creak in his voice.

“He’s a big boy,” Craig tells the father. 

“He’s a perfect boy!” his father declares and kisses the soft chocolaty head that he supports with his large hand. “Look at his hands! He’s an artist!” And he lovingly lifts the perfectly formed baby hands for Craig and Luke to see.

“His father’s an artist,” Mako’s mother explains.  She looks at Craig, and then Luke. 

“What happened to your friend, your friend who was sick?” she asks, gentle, suspecting. 

“His died a few months ago,” Craig says respectfully. 

“Oh, I am sorry for you,” the father says sincerely, stroking Mako’s little dark head. Mako is trying to turn around to see where the voices are coming from. 

“He was very sick,” Craig explains. 

“Did he know how sick?” the beautiful mother asks. 

Craig nods. 

“Brave,” the father says. They are all a little awkward for a second when Mako, who has managed to turn around, squeals at Craig.

“Hello,” Craig smiles at the baby, who gives him a perfect gummy smile back. 

“He likes you,” his mother says, pleased. 

Craig strokes Mako’s fat warm cheek briefly. “You’re lucky.” 

“We’re blessed!” the father says with a bright face. “Our baby is a blessing.” 

Mako agrees, and chirrups once more. 

“Nice to see you again,” the mother says. 

“I’ll see you around,” Craig says. 

“Maybe not – we’re maybe moving to New York in a few months! My brother is there, and my company is seeing if I can transfer!” 

“Good luck!”

Craig explains the couple to Luke as they make their way home. 

“Lucky Mako,” Craig says.

“Lucky parents,” Luke answers. 

*******************

It’s warm and cosy at home once they have the lights on and the heater kicks in. 

Craig has hidden the first Christmas present, and now stands in the kitchen with Luke as he examines the contents of the refrigerator with him. 

“Roast would be nice,” Craig suggests.

“Roasts are for Sunday,” Luke says as they devise tonight’s menu. 

“You can have a roast on Saturday,” Craig believes. 

“Yeah, but they don’t taste the same. What about chicken? We’ve got that fillet, and there’s plenty of veggies.” 

“Okay, chicken – roasted?” 

Luke wrinkles his nose. “Pan fried, the way you did it before.”

“The way I did it? I’m cooking?”

“Yes.” Luke is definite. “I’ll supervise.” 

Craig grabs him around the waist and burrows his face deep into his neck. It’s irresistible, grabbing him like this; Luke is so warm and smooth, and so responsive. He clasps his arms right over Craig’s and tips his face back, laughing as Craig teases him. 

“So Mr Piggy’s going to supervise?” Craig whispers. 

Luke laughs more as Craig’s rough cheek tickles his throat. 

“I’ll watch the veggies, Virgil,” Luke offers, squirming happily against the strong arms. 

“Oh, Piggy, you are so good to me!” Craig sniggers. 

“Only the best for you, Virg!” 

Luke’s much better these days. He still has the occasional sorrowful lapse, and currently finds it very difficult to talk about the bad month, as he calls it, in any detail. He can, however, talk with Craig in detail about the preceding six months, and he’s finding it easier to discuss the baby. 

It takes time, the therapist, Luke’s mother, Craig’s brother and Auntie Patty all say. 

As long as I’m with you, is all Luke says. 

Craig agrees with Luke. 

***********************

The veggies are cooking under the grill, the chicken waits rich and warm in its juices, snug in the covered pan with a little black pepper and rosemary. 

Craig is rewinding the tape on which he recorded the World Cup of Wales playing Canada. He has avoided news broadcasts all day so as to enjoy the game as if it were live. 

Luke, meanwhile, is hunting for a book; flicking though one of the bookcases, looking for the first time at the volumes of poetry. He plans to lie all over Craig and read when the game’s on.

“You’ve got a lot of poetry,” he remarks to Craig. 

“Hmmm?” Craig is cuing up his tape, and takes a few seconds to absorb the question. “Oh, the Audens,” he smiles. “They were mainly Sean’s.” 

Luke has already seen the first owner’s name on the inside cover. He idly opens a large volume, dipping from page to page to see if something catches his eye. 

He reads a verse at random with some difficulty then reads it again. 

“See,” he says to Craig who is now flicking off the TV, “This is why I hate poetry.”

And Luke reads the random verse he has found out loud. 

“The glacier knocks in the cupboard

The desert sighs in the bed

And the crack in the teacup opens 

A lane to the land of the dead.” 

“I mean,” Luke says, a bit exasperated, “What’s that all about?” 

Craig settles on the floor beside him and reads the verse over his shoulder. 

“Well, I’ve always thought he talking about the amazing things that exist all around us, you know, the really great things that are right under our noses every day that we just don’t see.” 

Luke thinks about this. 

“I read an article once,” Craig continues, “about what a dog sees when it watches a man read a paper. It said that the dog has no idea that the man is taking in all kinds of information just by looking at a large printed sheet. The article said that just as many things could be happening around us every day, and we never notice.” 

They’re quiet for a few seconds, wondering briefly how much might be happening as they sit together on this early autumn evening.  

“Anyway, you’ve missed the best verse in that one,” Craig says, turning the page back and reading a previous verse to Luke. 

“I’ll love you till the ocean

Is folded and hung up to dry

And the seven stars go squawking

Like geese about the sky.” 

Luke thinks about this too. 

“The ocean’s never going to be hung up to dry,” he says, a little confused. 

“Exactly,” Craig says. “Forever.” 

Luke smiles as it becomes clearer. “That’s nice,” is all he says, but he earmarks the page and often goes back to read it over and over at different stages in his life. 

Till the ocean is folded and hung up to dry. You can’t get a better promise than that. 

*******************

Later that night they lie together, content and drowsy now after their lovemaking. They talk in soft hushes although there’s no need, other than the pleasure of maintaining their shrouded and intensely personal relationship.

They’re on their sides, facing one another, just barely able to make each other out in the dim light. Craig, once more, is lightly kissing Luke’s wrists.

“We’re good at this, aren’t we?” Luke says quietly. 

“What, wanton passionate sex?” Craig teases, his voice as soft. “We’re excellent!”

“Well, that too, but I meant the relationship bit. We’re good, aren’t we?” 

Craig holds Luke’s scarred hand to his face. 

“We are,” he agrees. “I worried about it a lot in the beginning, whether we would be.” 

“Why?” 

“Well, it wasn’t – well, we didn’t have a conventional start, did we?”  He smiles, making it clear he isn’t allocating any blame. 

“No. We had an unconventional start,” and Luke smiles back. “What did you worry about?” 

Craig reaches over to switch off the lamp, shifts a little closer and slips his hand behind Luke’s neck. “You know. Worried that you wouldn’t like it, or that I came on too strong, or that maybe we couldn’t connect.” 

Luke understands what he means. “But we do connect, don’t we?”

“Hmm,” Craig tilts his face forward and kisses the waiting mouth.  Luke settles in again his chest and closes his eyes as the arms fold around him. When they’re still he presses his head against the hard chest and listens to Craig’s heart, strong and powerful, the force gushing inside him. 

They lie together, quiet in the dark in this ancient city, another two men in a vast tapestry of people. All around them London is alive with the lights of millions of coloured hearts of millions of people, and the cold October air glimmers with the souls of millions more.

But here in bed it is peaceful and warm. They’re comfortable, deeply in love, still surprised that something so rare and so sweet could be theirs after all. 

Craig remembers Luke’s succinct description, and reminds him again.

“It’s good here, just us, isn’t it?” he whispers as he holds Luke to his heart.

“Heaven on earth,” Luke smiles in the dark, more right than he could guess. 

**Author’sNote: the poem Luke and Craig read is “As I Walked Out One Evening”, W.H. Auden, 1940.**

**This one’s for you, Fraser – partially to annoy you, but mostly because I miss you. I hope it was beautiful, and I hope you found her.  xxx**


End file.
